THE  HOUSE 


GABI 


ATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


GLADYS   E.   STRATTON 
88    S.     WILLARD     ST. 

BURLINGTON,    VT. 


J&atjjaniel  Datutbornr 


WORKS.  Graylock  Edition.  With  Introduction  by  Mrs.  ROSE 
HAWTHORNS  LATHROP.  In  22  vols.,  each  with  frontispiece. 

i,  a.  Twice-Told  Tales ;  3.  The  Snow-Image  and  Other  Twice- 
Told  Tales ;  4,  5.  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse ;  6.  The  Scarlet 
Letter;  7.  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables;  8.  The  Blithedale 
Romance  ;  9,  10.  The  Marble  Faun  ;  n.  Our  Old  Home;  12.  The 
Whole  History  of  Grandfather's  Chair  and  Biographical  Stories ; 

13.  A  Wonder- Book  for  Girls  and  Boys,  and  Tangle  wood  Tales; 

14.  The  Dolliver  Romance  and  Kindred  Tales;  15.  Doctor Grim- 
shawe's  Secret;  16.  Tales  and   Sketches;  17.  Miscellanies,  Bio- 
graphical and  Other  Sketches  and  Letters ;  18.  Passages  from  the 
American  Note-Books  ;  19,  20,  21,  22.  Notes  of  Travel. 

WORKS.  Riverside  Edition.  With  Biographical  Notes  by 
GEORGE  P.  LATHROP,  12  original  full-page  Etchings,  13  vignette 
Woodcuts,  and  Portrait.  In  13  vols.  The  set,  15  vols.,  including 
Life  of  Hawthorne,  by  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE. 

i.  Twice-Told  Tales ;  2.  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse ;  3.  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  the  Snow-Image ;  4.  A  Wonder- 
Book,  Tanglewood  Tales,  and  Grandfather's  Chair ;  5.  The  Scar- 
let Letter,  and  The  Blithedale  Romance ;  6.  The  Marble  Faun ; 
7,  8.  Our  Old  Home,  and  English  Note-Books,  2  vols.;  9.  Amer- 
ican Note-Books;  10.  French  and  Italian  Note-Books;  n.  The 
Dolliver  Romance,  Fanshawe,  Septimius  Felton,  and  in  an  Ap- 
pendix, The  Ancestral  Footstep ;  12.  Tales,  Sketches,  and  Other 
Papers.  With  a  Biographical  Sketch  by  G.  P.  LATHROP  ;  13.  Dr. 
Grimshawe's  Secret.  Edited  by  JULIAN  HAWTHORNE,  and  with 
Indexes. 

Wayside  Edition.     In  13  vols. 

Little  Classic  Edition.     In  25  vols.  (including  Index). 
For  a  list  of  works  published   separately  in  other  editions,  see 

Complete  Catalogue,  which  will  be  sent  on  request. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE 
SEVEN  GABLES 


BY 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM  PHOTOGRAPHS 
BY  CHARLES  S.  OLCOTT 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Cfee  fttoertftie 


COPYRIGHT!   19131  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANT 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

NOTE  TO  THE  VISITORS'  EDITION 7 

PREFACE •  13 

I.  THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY    ....  17 

II.  THE  LITTLE  SHOP- WINDOW    .        .                .  46 

III.  THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER        .        .        .        .        .60 

IV.  A   DAY  BEHIND  THE   COUNTER          ...  76 

V.  MAT  AND  NOVEMBER         .        .        .        .        .92 

VI.  MAULE'S  WELL 110 

VII.  THE  GUEST         .        .    . 123 

VIII.  THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY    ....  142 

IX.  CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE 162 

X.  THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN        .        .        .        .  176 

XI.  THE  ARCHED  WINDOW 192 

XII.  THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST                                   t  208 

XIII.  ALICE  PYNCHEON 224 

XIV.  PH<EBE'S  GOOD-BY  .        .        .        .        .        .  262 

XV.  THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE 266 

XVI.  CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER 286 

XVII.  THE  FLIGHT  OF  Two  OWLB      ....  300 

XVIII.  GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON 317 

XIX.  ALICE'S  POSIES 336 

XX.  THE  FLOWER  OF  EDEN 365 

XXI.  THE  DEPARTURE                                                ,  366 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES          .        .       Frontispiece 

From  Turner  Street. 
HAWTHORNE'S  BIRTHPLACE 14 

In  Union  Street,  Salem. 
THE  ATTIC .        .        .42 

Showing  evidences  of  the  existence  of  an  additional  gable. 

THE  SHOP 88 

HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES 112 

From  a  corner  of  the  garden. 

THE  KITCHEN 124 

THE  BUFFET 128 

THE  PARLOR .154 

Called  "  Grand  Reception  Room  "  in  the  story. 

HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES          .        .        .        .        .  178 
From  the  garden. 

THE  HALL  AND  STAIRWAY 204 

THE  DINING-ROOM 230 

Called  "  the  parlor  of  more  moderate  size  "  ;  also  Miss  Ilepzi- 
bah's  sitting-room  and  dining-room.  The  open  door  at 
the  left  of  the  mantel  shows  the  entrance  to  the  secret 
stairway  through  the  chimney,  connecting  with  Clifford's 
room. 

PHOSBE'S  ROOM 266 

Or  "  great  chamber." 
CLIFFORD'S  ROOM 292 

The  slightly  open  panel  in  the  partition  is  the  upper  entrance 
to  the  secret  stairway  through  the  chimney. 

A  CORNER  OF  THE  PARLOR 326 

Showing  Hawthorne's  chair.  Miss  Ingersoll's  portrait  hangs 
at  the  right  of  the  clock. 

HAWTHORNE'S  HOUSE  IN  MALL  STREET  ....  342 

Where  Hawthorne  wrote  "  The  Scarlet  Letter." 
THE  GRIMSHAWE  HOUSE 370 

Where  Mrs.  Hawthorne  lived  before  her  marriage. 


NOTE  TO  THE  VISITORS'  EDITION. 


At  the  foot  of  Turner  Street  in  Salem  and  facing 
the  harbor  stands  a  venerable  mansion  now  generally 
acknowledged  as  the  scene  and  inspiration  of  Haw- 
thorne's famous  romance.  In  fact,  it  is  the  only  house 
that  has  ever  been  known  as  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  though  its  claim  to  that  picturesque  name  has 
been  sometimes  disputed. 

The  history  of  the  Turner  Street  house  is  briefly 
this.  The  land  on  which  it  stands  was  bought  by  John* 
Turner  in  1668.  He  built  on  it,  not  later  than  1669,  a 
house  that  at  first  consisted  of  only  four  rooms  —  the 
hall  or  living-room,  the  kitchen,  two  bedrooms  —  and  a 
garret.  But  to  meet  the  needs  of  his  growing  family 
he  seems  to  have  speedily  enlarged  it  by  adding  a 
kitchen  at  the  back  and  a  wing  in  front  containing  a 
parlor,  parlor  chamber,  and  garret.  The  old  kitchen 
was  then  used  as  a  shop,  presumably  to  sell  the  smaller 
articles  of  merchandise  that  his  ships  brought  home. 
The  bulkier  part  of  his  cargoes  was  stored  in  warehouses 
built  near  his  wharf  at  the  water's  edge. 

The  first  John  Turner,  who  was  not  only  a  prosper- 
ous merchant,  but  a  soldier  and  a  man  of  affairs,  died 
when  he  was  only  thirty-six.  He  was  succeeded  by  his 
son,  whose  longer  life  brought  him  even  greater  suc- 
cess in  business  and  more  conspicuous  honors.  He  was 
known  as  the  Hon.  Colonel  John  Turner,  Esq.  During 


8  NOTE  TO  THE   VISITORS1  EDITION. 

his  life  the  mansion  was  still  further  enlarged  and  the 
estate  doubled  in  acreage. 

After  his  death  in  1742  the  land  was  divided  among 
his  many  children,  his  eldest  son,  the  third  John  Tur- 
ner, getting  possession  of  the  mansion,  which  in  1782 
he  sold  to  Captain  Samuel  Ingersoll,  "with  the  land 
under  and  adjoining."  It  was  through  the  Ingersolls 
that  Hawthorne's  connection  with  the  house  came 
about,  for  Mrs.  Ingersoll  was  a  Hawthorne  before  her 
marriage.  Her  father  was  a  brother  to  the  novelist's 
grandfather. 

Captain  and  Mrs.  Ingersoll  had  several  children, 
but  the  only  one  to  survive  both  her  parents  was  Su- 
sannah, generally  known  as  "  Susy,"  who  inherited 
the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  in  1812,  when  she  was 
only  twenty-six. 

Perhaps  it  was  being  left  alone  in  the  world  at  this 
comparatively  early  age  which  drew  her  so  closely  to 
her  Hawthorne  cousins.  The  Hawthorne  family  let- 
ters show  the  intimacy  that  existed,  and  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne  went  often  to  see  her,  though  she  was 
eighteen  years  his  senior.  Her  portrait  hangs  in  the 
parlor  of  the  Gables.  It  shows  a  very  individual  face, 
with  dark,  expressive  eyes.  Tradition  tells  us  that  she 
was  a  bright,  lively  girl,  fond  of  society  until  the  cur- 
rent of  her  life  was  turned  by  an  unfortunate  love 
affair  with  a  young  naval  officer.  The  officer  sailed 
away,  and  Susannah  Ingersoll  became  a  recluse,  re- 
fusing to  allow  a  man  to  enter  her  house.  But  she  did 
not  close  her  doors  to  her  young  cousin  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne,  and  we  can  picture  him  sitting  on  the 
window-seat  in  the  parlor,  and  gazing  down  the  har- 
bor, or  ensconced  in  the  comfortable  depths  of  the 
"  Hawthorne  chair,"  —  a  shy,  dreamy  youth,  glad,  no 


NOTE  TO  THE   VISITORS1  EDITION.  9 

doubt,  to  hear  all  the  tales  of  the  past  that  his  eccen- 
tric old  kinswoman  could  tell  him,  of  the  times  when 
the  house  had  seven  gables,  and  an  overhanging  sec- 
ond story,  and  a  secret  staircase. 

For  by  the  time  Hawthorne  came  to  know  the  house, 
most  of  these  ancient  features  were  no  longer  to  be 
seen,  and  his  knowledge  of  them  could  only  have  come 
through  the  recollections  of  Miss  Ingersoll's  childhood 
and  what  her  parents  had  told  her. 

Miss  Ingersoll's  later  years  were  cheered  by  her  in- 
terest in  an  adopted  son,  a  foundling  of  mysterious 
birth,  named  Horace  Conolly.  He  was  thought  by 
some  to  be  the  son  of  her  servant.  Whatever  may 
have  been  his  claim  on  Miss  Ingersoll,  she  loved  him 
devotedly,  but  unfortunately  he  was  weak  and  unprin- 
cipled. He  made  little  use  of  the  fine  education  she 
gave  him,  and  soon  dissipated  the  fortune  she  left  him. 
For  Miss  Ingersoll  left  him  all  — even  the  ancient  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables  where  she  was  born.  She  died  in 
1858,  and  in  1879  the  estate  was  sold  for  his  debts. 

In  the  next  four  years  the  house  saw  many  changes 
of  ownership,  until  in  1883  it  came  into  the  posses- 
sion of  the  Upton  family,  who  kept  it  for  twenty-five 
years. 

Meantime  the  character  of  the  neighborhood  had 
changed.  An  alien  population  had  made  a  peaceful  in- 
vasion of  this  old  Puritan  town  for  the  purpose  of 
working  in  the  shoe  shops  aiid  factories  which  now  re- 
placed the  old  time  Salem  shipping.  Settlement  work, 
following  in  the  wake  of  this  influx  of  foreigners,  was 
started  in  Turner  Street,  and  one  of  the  Settlement 
Committee  was  inspired  to  buy  the  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables  and  so  give  the  settlement  a  name  and 
a  home. 


10        NOTE  TO  THE  VISITORS'  EDITION. 

The  old  house  was  now  thoroughly  opened  up  for 
repairs,  and  while  it  was  under  repair  traces  of  four 
gables  were  discovered,  which,  added  to  the  three  gables 
remaining  on  the  house,  made  seven.  Several  leading 
antiquarians  were  invited  to  inspect  the  house,  and  all 
expressed  the  opinion  that  it  had  once  had  seven 
gables.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours !  An  old  plan  of 
the  house  and  land  now  turned  up  showing  that  in 
1746  the  house  had  a  long  projection  running  out  from 
the  lean-to.  As  the  lean-to  had  been  taken  off  in  1794, 
it  could  not  be  investigated,  but  the  projection  on  the 
plan  could  only  mean  a  wing  at  the  back  terminating 
in  another  gable.  This  meant  that  the  house  must 
once  have  had  eight  gables,  but  one  of  them  may  have 
been  removed  long  before  the  rest  and  forgotten  before 
the  Ingersolls  owned  the  house. 

In  point  of  fact  the  gable  which  covers  the  two- 
story  porch  must  have  been  most  troublesome.  Run- 
ning parallel  with  the  south  wing,  it  forms  a  pocket 
which  holds  the  snow,  and  in  the  old  days  snow-water 
must  have  leaked  in  copiously.  So  it  seems  not  im- 
probable that  this  gable  was  removed  before  the  others 
and  that  Hawthorne  never  heard  of  it. 

If  we  omit  this  one,  the  remaining  gables  correspond 
very  exactly  to  Hawthorne's  description.  In  restoring 
the  house  the  porch  gable  was  restored  with  the  other 
seven  on  account  of  its  antiquarian  interest.  All  the 
gables  were  restored  very  accurately  except  the  rear 
gable,  which  was  somewhat  changed  in  size  and  posi- 
tion to  suit  the  needs  of  the  settlement. 

The  overhang  was  easily  restored  after  it  was  found, 
for  it  was  necessary  only  to  uncover  it.  The  secret 
staircase  was  rebuilt  according  to  the  description  of 
Mr.  Upton,  who  took  it  down  twenty  years  before. 


NOTE  TO   THE  VISITORS'  EDITION.         11 

The  secret  staircase  is  not  mentioned  in  the  story,  but 
the  mysterious  way  in  which  Clifford  appears  in  the 
room  where  the  judge  is  sitting  dead  seems  to  indicate 
that  Hawthorne  had  heard  of  it. 

After  the  lean-to  was  taken  off,  the  shop  must  have 
been  cut  down  in  size  to  make  room  for  the  kitchen 
in  the  main  house,  or  else  given  up  altogether.  The 
evidence  is  contradictory;  so  the  first  alternative  was 
chosen  in  making  the  restoration. 

In  restoring  the  house  some  compromises  were  made 
with  historical  accuracy  in  fitting  it  for  use  as  a  settle- 
ment, but  nothing  was  changed  to  make  the  house  fit 
the  story.  There  being  no  authority,  for  instance,  for 
a  balcony  or  overhang  over  the  shop,  these  features 
were  not  supplied.  They  were  probably  flights  of  fancy 
on  Hawthorne's  part  and  support  his  statement  that 
he  used  "material  of  which  air  castles  are  built." 
However,  to  the  careful  student  the  points  of  differ- 
ence are  trivial  compared  with  the  underlying  resem- 
blance which  assures  us  that  the  ancient  mansion  on 
Turner  Street  well  deserves  the  name,  by  which  it  has 
been  known  for  decades,  of  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables. 

CAROLINE  0.  EMMERTON. 

June,  1913. 


PREFACE. 


WHEN  a  writer  calls  his  work  a  Romance,  it  need 
hardly  be  observed  that  he  wishes  to  claim  a  certain 
latitude,  both  as  to  its  fashion  and  material,  which 
he  would  not  have  felt  himself  entitled  to  assume  had 
he  professed  to  be  writing  a  Novel.  The  latter  form 
of  composition  is  presumed  to  aim  at  a  very  minute 
fidelity,  not  merely  to  the  possible,  but  to  the  prob- 
able and  ordinary  course  of  man's  experience.  The 
former  —  while,  as  a  work  of  art,  it  must  rigidly  sub- 
ject itself  to  laws,  and  while  it  sins  unpardonably  so 
far  as  it  may  swerve  aside  from  the  truth  of  the  hu- 
man heart  —  has  fairly  a  right  to  present  that  truth 
under  circumstances,  to  a  great  extent,  of  the  writer's 
own  choosing  or  creation.  If  he  think  fit,  also,  he 
may  so  manage  his  atmospherical  medium  as  to  bring 
out  or  mellow  the  lights  and  deepen  and  enrich  the 
shadows  of  the  picture.  He  will  be  wise,  no  doubt,  to 
make  a  very  moderate  use  of  the  privileges  here  stat- 
ed, and,  especially,  to  mingle  the  Marvellous  rather  as  a 
slight,  delicate,  and  evanescent  flavor,  than  as  any  por- 
tion of  the  actual  substance  of  the  dish  offered  to  the 
public.  He  can  hardly  be  said,  however,  to  commit  a 
literary  crime  even  if  he  disregard  this  caution. 

In  the  present  work,  the  author  has  proposed  to 
himself  —  but  with  what  success,  fortunately,  it  is  not 
for  him  to  judge  —  to  keep  undeviatingly  within  hw 


14  PREFACE. 

immunities.  The  point  of  view  in  which  this  tale 
comes  under  the  Romantic  definition  lies  in  the  at- 
tempt to  connect  a  bygone  time  with  the  very  present 
that  is  flitting  away  from  us.  It  is  a  legend  prolong- 
ing itself,  from  an  epoch  now  gray  in  the  distance, 
down  into  our  own  broad  daylight,  and  bringing  along 
with  it  some  of  its  legendary  mist,  which  the  reader,  ac- 
cording to  his  pleasure,  may  either  disregard,  or  allow 
it  to  float  almost  imperceptibly  about  the  characters 
and  events  for  the  sake  of  a  picturesque  effect.  The 
narrative,  it  may  be,  is  woven  of  so  humble  a  texture 
as  to  require  this  advantage,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to 
render  it  the  more  difficult  of  attainment. 

Many  writers  lay  very  great  stress  upon  some  defi- 
nite moral  purpose,  at  which  they  profess  to  aim  their 
works.  Not  to  be  deficient  in  this  particular,  the  au- 
thor has  provided  himself  with  a  moral,  —  the  truth, 
namely,  that  the  wrong-doing  of  one  generation  lives 
into  the  successive  ones,  and,  divesting  itself  of  every 
temporary  advantage,  becomes  a  pure  and  uncontrol- 
lable mischief ;  and  he  would  feel  it  a  singular  grat- 
ification if  this  romance  might  effectually  convince 
mankind  —  or,  indeed,  any  one  man  —  of  the  folly  of 
tumbling  down  an  avalanche  of  ill-gotten  gold,  or  real 
estate,  on  the  heads  of  an  unfortunate  posterity,  there- 
by to  maim  and  crush  them,  until  the  accumulated 
mass  shall  be  scattered  abroad  in  its  original  atoms. 
In  good  faith,  however,  he  is  not  sufficiently  imagina- 
tive to  flatter  himself  with  the  slightest  hope  of  this 
kind.  When  romances  do  really  teach  anything,  or 
produce  any  effective  operation,  it  is  usually  through 
a  far  more  subtile  process  than  the  ostensible  one. 
The  author  has  considered  it  hardly  worth  his  while, 
therefore,  relentlessly  to  impale  the  story  with  its 


HAWTHORNE'S   BIRTHPLACE 


PREFACE.  15 

moral  as  with  an  iron  rod,  —  or,  rather,  as  by  sticking 
a  pin  through  a  butterfly,  —  thus  at  once  depriving  it 
of  life,  and  causing  it  to  stiffen  in  an  ungainly  and  un- 
natural attitude.  A  high  truth,  indeed,  fairly,  finely, 
and  skilfully  wrought  out,  brightening  at  every  step, 
and  crowning  the  final  development  of  a  work  of  fic- 
tion, may  add  an  artistic  glory,  but  is  never  any  truer, 
and  seldom  any  more  evident,  at  the  last  page  than  at 
the  first. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  choose  to  assign  an  actual 
locality  to  the  imaginary  events  of  this  narrative.  If 
permitted  by  the  historical  connection,  —  which,  though 
slight,  was  essential  to  his  plan,  —  the  author  would 
very  willingly  have  avoided  anything  of  this  nature. 
Not  to  speak  of  other  objections,  it  exposes  the  ro- 
mance to  an  inflexible  and  exceedingly  dangerous  spe- 
cies of  criticism,  by  bringing  his  fancy-pictures  almost 
into  positive  contact  with  the  realities  of  the  moment. 
It  has  been  no  part  of  his  object,  however,  to  describe 
local  manners,  nor  in  any  way  to  meddle  with  the 
characteristics  of  a  community  for  whom  he  cherishes 
a  proper  respect  and  a  natural  regard.  He  trusts  not 
to  be  considered  as  unpardonably  offending  by  laying 
out  a  street  that  infringes  upon  nobody's  private  rights, 
and  appropriating  a  lot  of  land  which  had  no  visible 
owner,  and  building  a  house  of  materials  long  in  use 
for  constructing  castles  in  the  air.  The  personages  of 
the  tale  —  though  they  give  themselves  out  to  be  of 
ancient  stability  and  considerable  prominence  —  are 
really  of  the  author's  own  making,  or,  at  all  events,  of 
his  own  mixing ;  their  virtues  can  shed  no  lustre,  nor 
their  defects  redound,  in  the  remotest  degree,  to  the 
discredit  of  the  venerable  town  of  which  they  profess 
to  be  inhabitants.  He  would  be  glad,  therefore,  if  — 


16  PREFACE. 

especially  in  the  quarter  to  which  he  alludes  —  the 
book  may  be  read  strictly  as  a  Romance,  having  a 
great  deal  more  to  do  with  the  clouds  overhead  than 
with  any  portion  of  the  actual  soil  of  the  County  of 

Essex. 

LENOX,  January  27, 1361. 


THE 

HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 


THE  OLD  PTNCHEON  FAMILY. 

HALF-WAY  down  a  by -street  of  one  of  our  New 
England  towns  stands  a  rusty  wooden  house,  with 
seven  acutely  peaked  gables,  facing  towards  various 
points  of  the  compass,  and  a  huge,  clustered  chimney 
in  the  midst.  The  street  is  Pyncheon  Street;  the 
house  is  the  old  Pyncheon  House;  and  an  elm-tree, 
of  wide  circumference,  rooted  before  the  door,  is  famil- 
iar to  every  town-born  child  by  the  title  of  the  Pyn- 
cheon Elm.  On  my  occasional  visits  to  the  town 
aforesaid,  I  seldom  failed  to  turn  down  Pyncheon 
Street,  for  the  sake  of  passing  through  the  shadow 
of  these  two  antiquities,  —  the  great  elm-tree  and  the 
weather-beaten  edifice. 

The  aspect  of  the  venerable  mansion  has  always 
affected  me  like  a  human  countenance,  bearing  the 
traces  not  merely  of  outward  storm  and  sunshine,  but 
expressive,  also,  of  the  long  lapse  of  mortal  life,  and 
accompanying  vicissitudes  that  have  passed  within. 
Were  these  to  be  worthily  recounted,  they  would 
form  a  narrative  of  no  small  interest  and  instruction, 
and  possessing,  moreover,  a  certain  remarkable  unity, 

VOL.  in.  2 


18      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

which  might  almost  seem  the  result  of  artistic  arrange' 
ment.  But  the  story  would  include  a  chain  of  events 
extending  over  the  better  part  of  two  centuries,  and, 
written  out  with  reasonable  amplitude,  would  fill  a 
bigger  folio  volume,  or  a  longer  series  of  duodecimos, 
than  could  prudently  be  appropriated  to  the  annals  of 
all  New  England  during  a  similar  period.  It  conse- 
quently becomes  imperative  to  make  short  work  with 
most  of  the  traditionary  lore  of  which  the  old  Pyn- 
cheon  House,  otherwise  known  as  the  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables,  has  been  the  theme.  With  a  brief 
sketch,  therefore,  of  the  circumstances  amid  which  the 
foundation  of  the  house  was  laid,  and  a  rapid  glimpse 
at  its  quaint  exterior,  as  it  grew  black  in  the  prevalent 
east  wind,  —  pointing,  too,  here  and  there,  at  some 
spot  of  more  verdant  mossiness  on  its  roof  and  walls, 
—  we  shall  commence  the  real  action  of  our  tale  at  an 
epoch  not  very  remote  from  the  present  day.  Still, 
there  will  be  a  connection  with  the  long  past  —  a  ref- 
erence to  forgotten  events  and  personages,  and  to 
manners,  feelings,  and  opinions,  almost  or  wholly  ob- 
solete —  which,  if  adequately  translated  to  the  reader, 
would  serve  to  illustrate  how  much  of  old  material 
goes  to  make  up  the  freshest  novelty  of  human  life. 
Hence,  too,  might  be  drawn  a  we: jhty  lesson  from  the 
little-regarded  truth,  that  the  act  of  the  passing  gener- 
ation is  the  germ  which  may  and  must  produce  good 
or  evil  fruit  in  a  far-distant  time ;  that,  together  with 
the  seed  of  the  merely  temporary  crop,  which  mortals 
term  expediency,  they  inevitably  sow  the  acorns  of  a 
more  enduring  growth,  which  may  darkly  overshadow 
their  posterity. 

The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  antique  as  it  now 
looks,  was  not  the  first  habitation  erected  by  civilized 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  19 

man  on  precisely  the  same  spot  of  ground.  Pyncheon 
Street  formerly  bore  the  humbler  appellation  of  Maule's 
Lane,  from  the  name  of  the  original  occupant  of  the 
soil,  before  whose  cottage-door  it  was  a  cow-path.  A 
natural  spring  of  soft  and  pleasant  water  —  a  rare 
treasure  on  the  sea-girt  peninsula,  where  the  Puritaii 
settlement  was  made  —  had  early  induced  Matthew 
Maule  to  build  a  hut,  shaggy  with  thatch,  at  this« 
point,  although  somewhat  too  remote  from  what  was 
then  the  centre  of  the  village.  In  the  growth  of  the 
town,  however,  after  some  thirty  or  forty  years,  the 
site  covered  by  this  rude  hovel  had  become  exceed- 
ingly desirable  in  the  eyes  of  a  prominent  and  power- 
ful personage,  who  asserted  plausible  claims  to  the 
proprietorship  of  this,  and  a  large  adjacent  tract  of 
land,  on  the  strength  of  a  grant  from  the  legislature. 
Colonel  Pyncheon,  the  claimant,  as  we  gather  from 
whatever  traits  of  him  are  preserved,  was  character- 
ized by  an  iron  energy  of  purpose.  Matthew  Maule, 
on  the  other  hand,  though  an  obscure  man,  was  stub- 
born in  the  defence  of  what  he  considered  his  right ; 
and,  for  several  years,  he  succeeded  in  protecting  the 
acre  or  two  of  earth,  which,  with  his  own  toil,  he  had 
hewn  out  of  the  primeval  forest,  to  be  his  garden- 
ground  and  homestead.  No  written  record  of  this 
dispute  is  known  to  be  in  existence.  Our  acquaintr 
ance  with  the  whole  subject  is  derived  chiefly  from 
tradition.  It  would  be  bold,  therefore,  and  possibly 
unjust,  to  venture  a  decisive  opinion  as  to  its  merits; 
although  it  appears  to  have  been  at  least  a  matter  of 
doubt,  whether  Colonel  Pyncheon's  claim  were  not 
unduly  stretched,  in  order  to  make  it  cover  the  small 
metes  and  bounds  of  Matthew  Maule.  What  greatly 
strengthens  such  a  suspicion  is  the  fact  that  this  con- 


20      THE   HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

troversy  between  two  ill-matched  antagonists  —  at  a 
period,  moreover,  laud  it  as  we  may,  when  personal 
•  influence  had  far  more  weight  than  now  —  remained 
for  years  undecided,  and  came  to  a  close  only  with  the 
death  of  the  party  occupying  the  disputed  soil.  The 
mode  oc  his  death,  too,  affects  the  mind  differently, 
in  Diir  day,  from  what  it  did  a  century  and  a  half  ago. 
It  was  a  death  that  blasted  with  strange  horror  the 
humble  name  of  the  dweller  in  the  cottage,  and  made 
?t  seem  almost  a  religious  act  to  drive  the  plough  over 
the  little  area  of  his  habitation,  and  obliterate  his  place 
and  memory  from  among  men. 

Old  Matthew  Maule,  in  a  word,  was  executed  for 
the  crime  of  witchcraft.  He  was  one  of  the  martyrs 
to  that  terrible  delusion,  which  should  teach  us,  among 
its  other  morals,  that  the  influential  classes,  and  those 
who  take  upon  themselves  to  be  leaders  of  the  people, 
are  fully  liable  to  all  the  passionate  error  that  has 
ever  characterized  the  maddest  mob.  Clergymen, 
judges,  statesmen,  —  the  wisest,  calmest,  holiest  per- 
sons of  their  day,  —  stood  in  the  inner  circle  round 
about  the  gallows,  loudest  to  applaud  the  work  of 
blood,  latest  to  confess  themselves  miserably  deceived. 
If  any  one  part  of  their  proceedings  can  be  said  to  de- 
serve less  blame  than  another,  it  was  the  singular  in- 
discrimination with  which  they  persecuted,  not  merely 
ihe  poor  and  aged,  as  in  former  judicial  massacres,  but 
people  of  all  ranks ;  their  own  equals,  brethren,  and 
wives.  Amid  the  disorder  of  such  various  ruin,  it  is 
not  strange  that  a  man  of  inconsiderable  note,  like 
Maule,  should  have  trodden  the  martyr's  path  to  the 
hill  of  execution  almost  unremarked  in  the  throng  of 
his  fellow-sufferers.  But,  in  after  days,  when  the 
frenzy  of  that  hideous  epoch  had  subsided,  it  was  re 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  21 

membered  how  loudly  Colonel  Pyncheon  had  joined 
in  the  general  cry,  to  purge  the  land  from  witchcraft ; 
nor  did  it  fail  to  be  whispered,  that  there  was  an  in- 
vidious acrimony  in  the  zeal  with  which  he  had  sought 
the  condemnation  of  Matthew  Maule.  It  was  well 
known  that  the  victim  had  recognized  the  bitterness 
of  personal  enmity  in  his  persecutor's  conduct  towards 
him,  and  that  he  declared  himself  hunted  to  death  for 
his  spoil.  At  the  moment  of  execution — with  the 
halter  about  his  neck,  and  while  Colonel  Pyncheon 
sat  on  horseback,  grimly  gazing  at  the  scene  —  Maule 
had  addressed  him  from  the  scaffold,  and  uttered  a 
prophecy,  of  which  history,  as  well  as  fireside  tradi- 
tion, has  preserved  the  very  words.  "  God,"  said  the 
dying  man,  pointing  his  finger,  with  a  ghastly  look, 
at  the  undismayed  countenance  of  his  enemy,  —  "  God 
will  give  him  blood  to  drink ! " 

After  the  reputed  wizard's  death,  his  humble  home- 
stead had  fallen  an  easy  spoil  into  Colonel  Pyncheon's 
grasp.  When  it  was  understood,  however,  that  the 
Colonel  intended  to  erect  a  family  mansion  —  spacious, 
ponderously  framed  of  oaken  timber,  and  calculated  to 
endure  for  many  generations  of  his  posterity  —  over 
the  spot  first  covered  by  the  log-built  hut  of  Matthew 
Maule,  there  was  much  shaking  of  the  head  among 
the  village  gossips.  Without  absolutely  expressing  a 
doubt  whether  the  stalwart  Puritan  had  acted  as  a  man 
of  conscience  and  integrity  throughout  the  proceedings 
which  have  been  sketched,  they,  nevertheless,  hinted 
that  he  was  about  to  build  his  house  over  an  unquiet 
grave.  His  home  would  include  the  home  of  the  dead 
and  buried  wizard,  and  would  thus  afford  the  ghost  of 
the  latter  a  kind  of  privilege  to  haunt  its  new  apart- 
ments, and  the  chambers  into  which  future  bridegrooms 


22      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

were  to  lead  their  brides,  and  where  children  of  the 
Pyncheon  blood  were  to  be  born.  The  terror  and  ugli- 
ness of  Maule's  crime,  and  the  wretchedness  of  his 
punishment,  would  darken  the  freshly  plastered  walls, 
and  infect  them  early  with  the  scent  of  an  old  and  met 
ancholy  house.  Why,  then,  — while  so  much  of  the 
soil  around  him  was  bestrewn  with  the  virgin  forest- 
leaves, —  why  should  Colonel  Pyncheon  prefer  a  site 
that  had  already  been  accurst? 

But  the  Puritan  soldier  and  magistrate  was  not  a 
man  to  be  turned  aside  from  his  well  -  considered 
scheme,  either  by  dread  of  the  wizard's  ghost,  or  by 
flimsy  sentimentalities  of  any  kind,  however  specious. 
Had  he  been  told  of  a  bad  air,  it  might  have  moved 
him  somewhat ;  but  he  was  ready  to  encounter  an  evil 
spirit  on  his  own  ground.  Endowed  with  common- 
sense,  as  massive  and  hard  as  blocks  of  granite,  fas 
tened  together  by  stern  rigidity  of  purpose,  as  with 
iron  clamps,  he  followed  out  his  original  design,  prob- 
ably without  so  much  as  imagining  an  objection  to  it. 
On  the  score  of  delicacy,  or  any  scrupulousness  which 
a  finer  sensibility  might  have  taught  him,  the  Colonel, 
like  most  of  his  breed  and  generation,  was  impenetra- 
ble. He,  therefore,  dug  his  cellar,  and  laid  the  deep 
foundations  of  his  mansion,  on  the  square  of  earth 
whence  Matthew  Maule,  forty  years  before,  had  first 
swept  away  the  fallen  leaves.  It  was  a  curious,  and,  as 
some  people  thought,  an  ominous  fact,  that,  very  soon 
after  the  workmen  began  their  operations,  the  spring 
of  water,  above  mentioned,  entirely  lost  the  delicious- 
ness  of  its  pristine  quality.  Whether  its  sources  were 
disturbed  by  the  depth  of  the  new  cellar,  or  whatever 
subtler  cause  might  lurk  at  the  bottom,  it  is  certain 
that  the  water  of  Maule's  Well,  as  it  continued  to  be 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  23 

called,  grew  hard  and  brackish.  Even  such  we  find  it 
now  ;  and  any  old  woman  of  the  neighborhood  will  cer. 
tify  that  it  is  productive  of  intestinal  mischief  to  those 
who  quench  their  thirst  there. 

The  reader  may  deem  it  singular  that  the  head  car- 
penter of  the  new  edifice  was  no  other  than  the  son  of 
the  very  man  from  whose  dead  gripe  the  property  of 
the  soil  had  been  wrested.  Not  improbably  he  was  the 
best  workman  of  his  time ;  or,  perhaps,  the  Colonel 
thought  it  expedient,  or  was  impelled  by  some  better 
feeling,  thus  openly  to  cast  aside  all  animosity  against 
the  race  of  his  fallen  antagonist.  Nor  was  it  out  of 
keeping  with  the  general  coarseness  and  matter-of-fact 
character  of  the  age,  that  the  son  should  be  willing  to 
earn  an  honest  penny,  or,  rather,  a  weighty  amount  of 
sterling  pounds,  from  the  purse  of  his  father's  deadly 
enemy.  At  all  events,  Thomas  Maule  became  the  ar-. 
chitect  of  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  per- 
formed his  duty  so  faithfully  that  the  timber  frame- 
work fastened  by  his  hands  still  holds  together. 

Thus  the  great  house  was  built.  Familiar  as  it 
stands  in  the  writer's  recollection,  —  for  it  has  been  an 
object  of  curiosity  with  him  from  boyhood,  both  as  a 
specimen  of  the  best  and  stateliest  architecture  of  a 
long-past  epoch,  and  as  the  scene  of  events  more  full 
of  human  interest,  perhaps,  than  those  of  a  gray  feu- 
dal castle,  —  familiar  as  it  stands,  in  its  rusty  old  age, 
it  is  therefore  only  the  more  difficult  to  imagine  the 
bright  novelty  with  which  it  first  caught  the  sunshine. 
The  impression  of  its  actual  state,  at  this  distance  of 
a  hundred  and  sixty  years,  darkens  inevitably  through 
the  picture  which  we  would  fain  give  of  its  appearance 
on  the  morning  when  the  Puritan  magnate  bade  all  the 
town  to  be  his  guests.  A  ceremony  of  consecration, 


24       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

festive  as  well  as  religious,  was  now  to  be  performed 
A  prayer  and  discourse  from  the  Rev.  Mr.  Higginson, 
and  the  outpouring  of  a  psalm  from  the  general  throat 
of  the  community,  was  to  be  made  acceptable  to  the 
grosser  sense  by  ale,  cider,  wine,  and  brandy,  in  copi- 
ous effusion,  and,  as  some  authorities  aver,  by  an  ox, 
roasted  whole,  or  at  least,  by  the  weight  and  substance 
of  an  ox,  in  more  manageable  joints  and  sirloins.  The 
carcass  of  a  deer,  shot  within  twenty  miles,  had  sup- 
plied material  for  the  vast  circumference  of  a  pasty. 
A  codfish  of  sixty  pounds,  caught  in  the  bay,  had 
been  dissolved  into  the  rich  liquid  of  a  chowder.  The 
chimney  of  the  new  house,  in  short,  belching  forth 
its  kitchen-smoke,  impregnated  the  whole  air  with  the 
scent  of  meats,  fowls,  and  fishes,  spicily  concocted  with 
odoriferous  herbs,  and  onions  in  abundance.  The 
mere  smell  of  such  festivity,  making  its  way  to  every- 
body's nostrils,  was  at  once  an  invitation  and  an  appe- 
tite. 

Maule's  Lane,  or  Pyncheon  Street,  as  it  were  now 
more  decorous  to  call  it,  was  thronged,  at  the  appointed 
hour,  as  with  a  congregation  on  its  way  to  church. 
All,  as  they  approached,  looked  upward  at  the  impos- 
ing edifice,  which  was  henceforth  to  assume  its  rank 

O 

among  the  habitations  of  mankind.  There  it  rose,  a 
little  withdrawn  from  the  line  of  the  street,  but  in 
pride,  not  modesty.  Its  whole  visible  exterior  was  or- 
namented with  quaint  figures,  conceived  in  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  a  Gothic  fancy,  and  drawn  or  stamped 
in  the  glittering  plaster,  composed  of  lime,  pebbles, 
and  bits  of  glass,  with  which  the  woodwork  of  the 
walls  was  overspread.  On  every  side  the  seven  gables 
pointed  sharply  towards  the  sky,  and  presented  the 
aspect  of  a  whole  sisterhood  of  edifices,  breathing 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  25 

through  the  spiracles  of  one  great  chimney.  The 
many  lattices,  with  their  small,  diamond-shaped  panes, 
admitted  the  sunlight  into  hall  and  chamber,  while, 
nevertheless,  the  second  story,  projecting  far  over  the 
base,  and  itself  retiring  beneath  the  third,  threw  a 
shadowy  and  thoughtful  gloom  into  the  lower  rooms. 
Carved  globes  of  wood  were  affixed  under  the  jutting 
stories.  Little  spiral  rods  of  iron  beautified  each  of 
the  seven  peaks.  On  the  triangular  portion  of  the 
gable,  that  fronted  next  the  street,  was  a  dial,  put  up 
that  very  morning,  and  on  which  the  sun  was  still 
marking  the  passage  of  the  first  bright  hour  in  a  his- 
tory that  was  not  destined  to  be  all  so  bright.  All 
around  were  scattered  shavings,  chips,  shingles,  and 
broken  halves  of  bricks ;  these,  together  with  the 
lately  turned  earth,  on  which  the  grass  had  not  begun 
to  grow,  contributed  to  the  impression  of  strangeness 
and  novelty  proper  to  a  house  that  had  yet  its  place 
to  make  among  men's  daily  interests. 

The  principal  entrance,  which  had  almost  the  breadth 
of  a  church-door,  was  in  the  angle  between  the  two 
front  gables,  and  was  covered  by  an  open  porch,  with 
benches  beneath  its  shelter.  Under  this  arched  door- 
way, scraping  their  feet  on  the  unworn  threshold,  now 
trod  the  clergymen,  the  elders,  the  magistrates,  the 
deacons,  and  whatever  of  aristocracy  there  was  in 
town  or  county.  Thither,  too,  thronged  the  plebeian 
classes  as  freely  as  their  betters,  and  in  larger  num- 
ber. Just  within  the  entrance,  however,  stood  two 
serving-men,  pointing  some  of  the  guests  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  kitchen,  and  ushering  others  into  the 
statelier  rooms,  —  hospitable  alike  to  all,  but  still  with 
a  scrutinizing  regard  to  the  high  or  low  degree  of 
tach.  Velvet  garments,  sombre  but  rich,  stiffly  plaited 


26       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ruffs  and  bands,  embroidered  gloves,  venerable  beards^ 
the  mien  and  countenance  of  authority,  made  it  easy 
to  distinguish  the  gentleman  of  worship,  at  that  period, 
from  the  tradesman,  with  his  plodding  air,  or  the 
laborer,  in  his  leathern  jerkin,  stealing  awe-stricken 
into  the  house  which  he  had  perhaps  helped  to  build. 

One  inauspicious  circumstance  there  was,  whicl1 
awakened  a  hardly  concealed  displeasure  in  the  breasts 
of  a  few  of  the  more  punctilious  visitors.  The  founder 
of  this  stately  mansion  —  a  gentleman  noted  for  the 
square  and  ponderous  courtesy  of  his  demeanor  — 
ought  surely  to  have  stood  in  his  own  hall,  and  to 
have  offered  the  first  welcome  to  so  many  eminent 
personages  as  here  presented  themselves  in  honor  of 
his  solemn  festival.  He  was  as  yet  invisible ;  the 
most  favored  of  the  guests  had  not  beheld  him.  This 
sluggishness  on  Colonel  Pyncheon's  part  became  still 
more  unaccountable,  when  the  second  dignitary  of  the 
province  made  his  appearance,  and  found  no  more 
ceremonious  a  reception.  The  lieutenant-governor, 
although  his  visit  was  one  of  the  anticipated  glories 
of  the  day,  had  alighted  from  his  horse,  and  assisted 
his  lady  from  her  side-saddle,  and  crossed  the  Colonel's 
threshold,  without  other  greeting  than  that  of  the  prin- 
cipal domestic. 

This  person  —  a  gray -headed  man,  of  quiet  and 
most  respectful  deportment  —  found  it  necessary  to 
explain  that  his  master  still  remained  in  his  study. 
or  private  apartment ;  on  entering  which,  an  hour  be. 
fore,  he  had  expressed  a  wish  on  no  account  to  be  dis- 
turbed. 

"  Do  not  you  see,  fellow,"  said  the  high-sheriff  of 
the  county,  taking  the  servant  aside,  "  that  this  is  no 
less  a  man  than  the  lieutenant-governor?  Summon 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  27 

Colonel  Pyncheon  at  once  !  I  know  that  he  received 
letters  from  England  this  morning ;  and,  in  the  pe- 
rusal and  consideration  of  them,  an  hour  may  have 
passed  away  without  his  noticing  it.  But  he  will  be 
ill-pleased,  I  judge,  if  you  suffer  him  to  neglect  the 
courtesy  due  to  one  of  our  chief  rulers,  and  who  may 
be  said  to  represent  King  William,  in  the  absence  of 
the  governor  himself.  Call  your  master  instantly ! " 

"  Nay,  please  your  worship,"  answered  the  man,  in 
much  perplexity,  but  with  a  backwardness  that  strik- 
ingly indicated  the  hard  and  severe  character  of  Col- 
onel Pyncheon's  domestic  rule ;  "  my  master's  orders 
were  exceeding  strict;  and,  as  your  worship  knows, 
he  permits  of  no  discretion  in  the  obedience  of  those 
who  owe  him  service.  Let  who  list  open  yonder  door ; 
I  dare  not,  though  the  governor's  own  voice  should 
bid  me  do  it !  " 

"Pooh,  pooh,  master  high-sheriff !  "  cried  the  lieu- 
tenant-governor, who  had  overheard  the  foregoing  dis- 
cussion, and  felt  himself  high  enough  in  station  to 
play  a  little  with  his  dignity.  "  I  will  take  the  matter 
into  my  own  hands.  It  is  time  that  the  good  Colonel 
came  forth  to  greet  his  friends ;  else  we  shall  be  apt 
to  suspect  that  he  has  taken  a  sip  too  much  of  his 
Canary  wine,  in  his  extreme  deliberation  which  cask 
it  were  best  to  broach  in  honor  of  the  day !  But  since 
he  is  so  much  behindhand,  I  will  give  him  a  remem- 
brancer myself ! " 

Accordingly,  with  such  a  tramp  of  his  ponderous 
riding-boots  as  might  of  itself  have  been  audible  in 
the  remotest  of  the  seven  gables,  he  advanced  to  the 
door,  which  the  servant  pointed  out,  and  made  its  new 
panels  reecho  with  a  loud,  free  knock.  Then,  looking 
round,  with  a  smile,  to  the  spectators,  he  awaited  a 


28      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

response.  As  none  came,  however,  he  knocked  again 
but  with  the  same  unsatisfactory  result  as  at  first. 
And  now,  being  a  trifle  choleric  in  his  temperament, 
the  lieutenant-governor  uplifted  the  heavy  hilt  of  his 
sword,  wherewith  he  so  beat  and  banged  upon  the 
door,  that,  as  some  of  the  by-standers  whispered,  the 
racket  might  have  disturbed  the  dead.  Be  that  as  it 
might,  it  seemed  to  produce  no  awakening  effect  on 
Colonel  Pyncheon.  When  the  sound  subsided,  the 
silence  through  the  house  was  deep,  dreary,  and  op- 
pressive, notwithstanding  that  the  tongues  of  many  of 
the  guests  had  already  been  loosened  by  a  surrepti- 
tious cup  or  two  of  wine  or  spirits. 

"  Strange,  forsooth !  —  very  strange ! "  cried  the  lieu- 
tenant-governor, whose  smile  was  changed  to  a  frown. 
"  But  seeing  that  our  host  sets  us  the  good  example  of 
forgetting  ceremony,  I  shall  likewise  throw  it  aside, 
and  make  free  to  intrude  on  his  privacy  !  " 

He  tried  the  door,  which  yielded  to  his  hand,  and 
was  flung  wide  open  by  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  that 
passed,  as  with  a  loud  sigh,  from  the  outermost  portal 
through  all  the  passages  and  apartments  of  the  new 
house.  It  rustled  the  silken  garments  of  the  ladies, 
and  waved  the  long  curls  of  the  gentlemen's  wigs, 
and  shook  the  window-hangings  and  the  curtains  of 
the  bedchambers ;  causing  everywhere  a  singular  stir, 
which  yet  was  more  like  a  hush.  A  shadow  of  awe  and 
half -fearful  anticipation  —  nobody  knew  wherefore, 
nor  of  what — had  all  at  once  fallen  over  the  company. 

They  thronged,  however,  to  the  now  open  door, 
pressing  the  lieutenant-governor,  in  the  eagerness  of 
their  curiosity,  into  the  room  in  advance  of  them.  At 
the  first  glimpse  they  beheld  nothing  extraordinary : 
a  handsomely  furnished  room,  of  moderate  size,  some 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  29 

what  darkened  by  curtains ;  books  arranged  on  shelves ; 
a  large  map  on  the  wall,  and  likewise  a  portrait  of 
Colonel  Pyncheon,  beneath  which  sat  the  original  Col- 
onel himself,  in  an  oaken  elbow-chair,  with  a  pen  in 
his  hand.  Letters,  parchments,  and  blank  sheets  of 
paper  were  on  the  table  before  him.  He  appeared  to 
gaze  at  the  curious  crowd,  in  front  of  which  stood  the 
lieutenant-governor;  and  there  was  a  frown  on  his 
dark  and  massive  countenance,  as  if  sternly  resentful 
of  the  boldness  that  had  impelled  them  into  his  pri- 
vate retirement. 

A  little  boy  —  the  Colonel's  grandchild,  and  the 
only  human  being  that  ever  dared  to  be  familiar  with 
him  —  now  made  his  way  among  the  guests,  and  ran 
towards  the  seated  figure ;  then  pausing  half-way,  he 
began  to  shriek  with  terror.  The  company,  tremulous 
as  the  leaves  of  a  tree,  when  all  are  shaking  together, 
drew  nearer,  and  perceived  that  there  was  an  unnat- 
ural distortion  in  the  fixedness  of  Colonel  Pyncheon's 
stare ;  that  there  was  blood  on  his  ruff,  and  that  his 
hoary  beard  was  saturated  with  it.  It  was  too  late  to 
give  assistance.  The  iron-hearted  Puritan,  the  relent- 
less persecutor,  the  grasping  and  strong-willed  man,  was 
dead!  Dead,  in  his  new  house  !  There  is  a  tradition, 
only  worth  alluding  to  as  lending  a  tinge  of  supersti- 
tious awe  to  a  scene  perhaps  gloomy  enough  without 
it,  that  a  voice  spoke  loudly  among  the  guests,  the 
*pnes  of  which  were  like  those  of  old  Matthew  Maule, 
the  executed  wizard,  —  "  God  hath  given  him  blood  to 
drink!" 

Thus  early  had  that  one  guest,  — the  only  guest  who 
is  certain,  at  one  time  or  another,  to  find  his  way  into 
every  human  dwelling,  —  thus  early  had  Death  stepped 
across  the  threshold  of  the  House  of  the  Seven  Ga 
bles! 


30      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

Colonel  Pyncheon's  sudden  and  mysterious  end 
made  a  vast  deal  of  noise  in  its  day.  There  were 
many  rumors,  some  of  which  have  vaguely  drifted 
do'vn  to  the  present  time,  how  that  appearances  indi- 
cated violence ;  that  there  were  the  marks  of  fingers 
on  his  throat,  and  the  print  of  a  bloody  hand  on  his 
plaited  ruff ;  and  that  his  peaked  beard  was  dishev- 
elled, as  if  it  had  been  fiercely  clutched  and  pulled. 
It  was  averred,  likewise,  that  the  lattice  <vindow,  near 
the  Colonel's  chair,  was  open ;  and  that,  only  a  few 
minutes  before  the  fatal  occurrence,  the  figure  of  a 
man  had  been  seen  clambering  over  the  garden-fence, 
in  the  rear  of  the  house.  But  it  were  folly  to  lay  any 
stress  on  stories  of  this  kind,  which  are  sure  to  spring 
up  around  such  an  event  as  that  now  related,  and 
which,  as  in  the  present  case,  sometimes  proljng  them- 
selves for  ages  afterwards,  like  the  toadstools  that  in- 
dicate where  the  fallen  and  buried  trunk  of  a  tree  has 
long  since  mouldered  into  the  earth.  For  our  own 
part,  we  allow  them  just  as  little  credence  as  to  that 
other  fable  of  the  skeleton  hand  which  the  lieutenant- 
governor  was  said  to  have  seen  at  the  Colonel's  throat, 
but  which  vanished  away,  as  he  advanced  farther  into 
the  room.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  there  was  a 
great  consultation  and  dispute  of  doctors  over  the  dead 
body.  One  —  John  Swinnerton  by  name — who  ap- 
pears to  have  been  a  man  of  eminence,  upheld  it,  if  we 
have  rightly  understood  his  terms  of  art,  to  be  a  case 
of  apoplexy.  His  professional  brethren,  each  for  him- 
self, adopted  various  hypotheses,  more  or  less  plausible, 
but  all  dressed  out  in  a  perplexing  mystery  of  phrase, 
which,  if  it  do  not  show  a  bewilderment  of  mind  ii 
these  erudite  physicians,  certainly  causes  it  in  the  un. 
learned  peruser  of  their  opinions.  The  coroner's  jury 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  81 

sat  upon  che  corpse,  and,  like  sensible  men,  returned 
an  unassailable  verdict  of  "  Sudden  Death  !  " 

It  is  indeed  difficult  to  imagine  that  there  could  have 
been  a  serious  suspicion  of  murder,  or  the  slightest 
grounds  for  implicating  any  particular  individual  as 
the  perpetrator.  The  rank,  wealth,  and  eminent  char- 
acter of  the  deceased  must  have  insured  the  strictest 
scrutiny  into  every  ambiguous  circumstance.  As  none 
such  is  on  record,  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  none  ex- 
isted. Tradition,  —  which  sometimes  brings  down 
truth  that  history  has  let  slip,  but  is  oftener  the  wild 
babble  of  the  time,  such  as  was  formerly  spoken  at 
the  fireside  and  now  congeals  in  newspapers,  —  tradi- 
tion is  responsible  for  all  contrary  averments.  In 
Colonel  Pyncheon's  funeral  sermon,  which  was  printed, 
and  is  still  extant,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Higginson  enumer- 
ates, among  the  many  felicities  of  his  distinguished 
parishioner's  earthly  career,  the  happy  seasonableness 
of  his  death.  His  duties  all  performed,  —  the  highest 
prosperity  attained,  —  his  race  and  future  generations 
fixed  on  a  stable  basis,  and  with  a  stately  roof  to 
shelter  them,  for  centuries  to  come,  —  what  other  up- 
ward step  remained  for  this  good  man  to  take,  save  the 
final  step  from  earth  to  the  golden  gate  of  heaven ! 
The  pious  clergyman  surely  would  not  have  uttered 
words  like  these  had  he  in  the  least  suspected  that 
the  Colonel  had  been  thrust  into  the  other  world  with 
the  'lutch  of  violence  upon  his  throat. 

The  family  of  Colonel  Pyncheon,  at  the  epoch  of  his 
death,  seemed  destined  to  as  fortunate  a  permanence 
as  can  anywise  consist  with  the  inherent  instability  of 
human  affairs.  It  might  fairly  be  anticipated  that  the 
progress  of  time  would  rather  increase  and  ripen  their 
prosperity,  than  wear  away  and  destroy  it.  For,  not 


82      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

only  had  his  son  and  heir  come  into  immediate  enjoy- 
ment of  a  rich  estate,  but  there  was  a  claim  through 
an  Indian  deed,  confirmed  by  a  subsequent  grant  of 
the  General  Court,  to  a  vast  and  as  yet  unexplored 
and  unmeasured  tract  of  Eastern  lands.  These  pos- 
sessions —  for  as  such  they  might  almost  certainly  be 
reckoned  —  comprised  the  greater  part  of  what  is  now 
known  as  Waldo  County,  in  the  State  of  Maine,  and 
were  more  extensive  than  many  a  dukedom,  or  even  a 
reigning  prince's  territory,  on  European  soil.  When 
the  pathless  forest  that  still  covered  this  wild  princi- 
pality should  give  place  —  as  it  inevitably  must,  though 
perhaps  not  till  ages  hence  —  to  the  golden  fertility  of 
human  culture,  it  would  be  the  source  of  incalculable 
wealth  to  the  Pyncheon  blood.  Had  the  Colonel  sur- 
vived only  a  few  weeks  longer,  it  is  probable  that  his 
great  political  influence,  and  powerful  connections  at 
home  and  abroad,  would  have  consummated  all  that 
was  necessary  to  render  the  claim  available.  But,  in 
spite  of  good  Mr.  Higginson's  congratulatory  elo- 
quence, this  appeared  to  be  the  one  thing  which  Colo- 
nel Pyncheon,  provident  and  sagacious  as  he  was,  had 
allowed  to  go  at  loose  ends.  So  far  as  the  prospective 
territory  was  concerned,  he  unquestionably  died  too 
soon,  His  son  lacked  not  merely  the  father's  eminent 
position,  but  the  talent  and  force  of  character  to 
achieve  it :  he  could,  therefore,  effect  nothing  by  dint 
of  political  interest ;  and  the  bare  justice  or  legality 
of  the  claim  was  not  so  apparent,  after  the  Colonel's 
decease,  as  it  had  been  pronounced  in  his  lifetime. 
Some  connecting  link  had  slipped  out  of  the  evidence, 
and  could  not  anywhere  be  found. 

Efforts,  it  is  true,  were   made  by  the  Pyncheons, 
^not  only  then,  but  at  various  periods  for  nearly  a  hun- 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  88 

tired  years  afterwards,  to  obtain  what  they  stubbornly 
persisted  in  deeming  their  right.  But,  in  course  of 
time,  the  territory  was  partly  re-granted  to  more  fa- 
vored individuals,  and  partly  cleared  and  occupied  by 
actual  settlers.  These  last,  if  they  ever  heard  of  the 
Pyncheon  title,  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of  any 
man's  asserting  a  right  —  on  the  strength  of  mouldy 
parchments,  signed  with  the  faded  autographs  of  gov- 
ernors and  legislators  long  dead  and  forgotten  —  to 
the  lands  which  they  or  their  fathers  had  wrested  from 
the  wild  hand  of  nature  by  their  own  sturdy  toiL 
This  impalpable  claim,  therefore,  resulted  in  nothing 
more  solid  than  to  cherish,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion, an  absurd  delusion  of  family  importance,  which 
all  along  characterized  the  Pyncheons.  It  caused  the 
poorest  member  of  the  race  to  feel  as  if  he  inherited  a 
kind  of  nobility,  and  might  yet  come  into  the  posses- 
sion of  princely  wealth  to  support  it.  In  the  better 
specimens  of  the  breed,  this  peculiarity  threw  an  ideal 
grace  over  the  hard  material  of  human  life,  without 
stealing  away  any  truly  valuable  quality.  In  the 
baser  sort,  its  effect  was  to  increase  the  liability  to 
sluggishness  and  dependence,  and  induce  the  victim  of 
a  shadowy  hope  to  remit  all  self-effort,  while  await- 
ing the  realization  of  his  dreams.  Years  and  years 
after  their  claim  had  passed  out  of  the  public  memory, 
the  Pyncheons  were  accustomed  to  consult  the  Colo- 
nel's ancient  map,  which  had  been  projected  while 
Waldo  County  was  still  an  unbroken  wilderness. 
Where  the  old  land-surveyor  had  put  down  woods, 
lakes,  and  rivers,  they  marked  out  the  cleared  spaces, 
and  dotted  the  villages  and  towns,  and  calculated  the 
progressively  increasing  value  of  the  territory,  as  if 


84      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

there  were  yet  a  prospect  of  its  ultimately  forming  9 
princedom  for  themselves. 

In  almost  every  generation,  nevertheless,  there  hap- 
pened to  be  some  one  descendant  of  the  family  gifted 
with  a  portion  of  the  hard,  keen  sense,  and  practical 
energy,  that  had  so  remarkably  distinguished  the  orig- 
inal founder.  His  character,  indeed,  might  be  traced 
all  the  way  down,  as  distinctly  as  if  the  Colonel  him- 
self, a  little  diluted,  had  been  gifted  with  a  sort  of 
intermittent  immortality  on  earth.  At  two  or  three 
epochs,  when  the  fortunes  of  the  family  were  low,  this 
representative  of  hereditary  qualities  had  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  caused  the  traditionary  gossips  of  the 
town  to  whisper  among  themselves,  "  Here  is  the  old 
Pyncheon  come  again  !  Now  the  Seven  Gables  will 
be  new-shingled  !  "  From  father  to  son,  they  clung  to 
the  ancestral  house  with  singular  tenacity  of  home  at- 
tachment. For  various  reasons,  however,  and  from 
impressions  often  too  vaguely  founded  to  be  put  on 
paper,  the  writer  cherishes  the  belief  that  many,  if  not 
most,  of  the  successive  proprietors  of  this  estate  were 
troubled  with  doubts  as  to  their  moral  right  to  hold  it. 
Of  their  legal  tenure  there  could  be  no  question  ;  but 
old  Matthew  Maule,  it  is  to  be  feared,  trode  downward 
from  his  own  age  to  a  far  later  one,  planting  a  heavy 
footstep,  all  the  way,  on  the  conscience  of  a  Pyncheon. 
If  so,  we  are  left  to  dispose  of  the  awful  query,  whether 
each  inheritor  of  the  property  —  conscious  of  wrong. 
and  failing  to  rectify  it  —  did  not  commit  anew  the 
great  guilt  of  his  ancestor,  and  incur  all  its  original 
responsibilities.  And  supposing  such  to  be  the  case, 
would  it  not  be  a  far  truer  mode  of  expression  to  say 
of  the  Pyncheon  family,  that  they  inherited  a  great 
misfortune,  than  the  reverse  ? 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  36 

We  have  already  hinted  that  it  is  not  our  purpose 
to  trace  down  the  history  of  the  Pyncheon  family,  in 
its  unbroken  connection  with  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables ;  nor  to  show,  as  in  a  magic  picture,  how  the 
rustiness  and  infirmity  of  age  gathered  over  the  vener- 
able house  itself.  As  regards  its  interior  life,  a  large, 
dim  looking-glass  used  to  hang  in  one  of  the  rooms, 
and  was  fabled  to  contain  within  its  depths  all  the 
shapes  that  had  ever  been  reflected  there,  —  the  old 
Colonel  himself,  and  his  many  descendants,  some  in 
the  garb  of  antique  babyhood,  and  others  in  the  bloom 
of  feminine  beauty  or  manly  prime,  or  saddened  with 
the  wrinkles  of  frosty  age.  Had  we  the  secret  of 
that  mirror,  we  would  gladly  sit  down  before  it,  and 
transfer  its  revelations  to  our  page.  But  there  was  a 
story,  for  which  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  any  founda- 
tion, that  the  posterity  of  Matthew  Maule  had  some 
connection  with  the  mystery  of  the  looking-glass,  and 
that,  by  what  appears  to  have  been  a  sort  of  mesmeric 
process,  they  could  make  its  inner  region  all  alive  with 
the  departed  Pyncheons  ;  not  as  they  had  shown  them- 
selves to  the  world  nor  in  their  better  and  happier 
hours,  but  as  doing  over  again  some  deed  of  sin,  or  in 
the  crisis  of  life's  bitterest  sorrow.  The  popular  imagi~ 
nation,  indeed,  long  kept  itself  busy  with  the  affair  of 
the  old  Puritan  Pyncheon  and  the  wizard  Maule  ;  the 
curse,  which  the  latter  flung  from  his  scaffold,  was  re- 
membered, with  the  very  important  addition,  that  it 
had  become  a  part  of  the  Pyncheon  inheritance.  If 
one  of  the  family  did  but  gurgle  in  his  throat,  a  by- 
stander would  be  likely  enough  to  whisper,  between  • 
jest  and  earnest,  "  He  has  Maule's  blood  to  drink ! " 
The  sudden  death  of  a  Pyncheon,  about  a  hundred 
years  ago,  with  circumstances  very  similar  to  what 


86      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

have  been  related  of  the  Colonel's  exit,  was  held  as 
giving  additional  probability  to  the  received  opinion 
on  this  topic.  It  was  considered,  moreover,  an  ugly 
and  ominous  circumstance,  that  Colonel  Pyncheon's 
picture  —  in  obedience,  it  was  said,  to  a  provision  of 
his  will  —  remained  affixed  to  the  wall  of  the  room 
in  which  he  died.  Those  stern,  immitigable  features 
seemed  to  symbolize  an  evil  influence,  and  so  darkly 
to  mingle  the  shadow  of  their  presence  with  the  sun- 
shine of  the  passing  hour,  that  no  good  thoughts  or 
purposes  could  ever  spring  up  and  blossom  there.  To 
the  thoughtful  mind  there  will  be  no  tinge  of  supersti- 
tion in  what  we  figuratively  express,  by  affirming  that 
the  ghost  of  a  dead  progenitor  —  perhaps  as  a  portion 
of  his  own  punishment  —  is  often  doomed  to  become 
the  Evil  Genius  of  his  family. 

The  Pyncheons,  in  brief,  lived  along,  for  the  better 
part  of  two  centuries,  with  perhaps  less  of  outward 
vicissitude  than  has  attended  most  other  New  England 
families  during  the  same  period  of  time.  Possessing 
very  distinctive  traits  of  their  own,  they  nevertheless 
took  the  general  characteristics  of  the  little  community 
in  which  they  dwelt ;  a  town  noted  for  its  frugal,  dis- 
creet, well  -  ordered,  and  home  -  loving  inhabitants,  as 
well  as  for  the  somewhat  confined  scope  of  its  sym- 
pathies ;  but  in  which,  be  it  said,  there  are  odder  in- 
dividuals, and,  now  and  then,  stranger  occurrences, 
than  one  meets  with  almost  anywhere  else.  During 
the  Revolution,  the  Pyncheon  of  that  epoch,  adopting 
the  royal  side,  became  a  refugee  ;  but  repented,  and 
made  his  reappearance,  just  at  the  point  of  time  to 
preserve  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  from  confisca- 
tion. For  the  last  seventy  years  the  most  noted  event 
in  the  Pyncheon  annals  had  been  likewise  the  heaviest 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  31 

calamity  that  ever  befell  the  race  ;  no  less  than  tW 
violent  death  —  for  so  it  was  adjudged  —  of  one  menv 
her  of  the  family  by  the  criminal  act  of  another.  Ceiv 
tain  circumstances  attending  this  fatal  occurrence  had 
brought  the  deed  irresistibly  home  to  a  nephew  of  the 
deceased  Pyncheon.  The  young  man  was  tried  and 
convicted  of  the  crime  ;  but  either  the  circumstantial 
nature  of  the  evidence,  and  possibly  some  lurking 
doubt  in  the  breast  of  the  executive,  or,  lastly,  —  an 
argument  of  greater  weight  in  a  republic  than  it  could 
have  been  under  a  monarchy,  —  the  high  respectability 
and  political  influence  of  the  criminal's  connections, 
had  availed  to  mitigate  his  doom  from  death  to  per- 
petual imprisonment.  This  sad  affair  had  chanced 
about  thirty  years  before  the  action  of  our  story  com- 
mences. Latterly,  there  were  rumors  (which  few  be- 
lieved, and  only  one  or  two  felt  greatly  interested  in) 
that  this  long-buried  man  was  likely,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  to  be  summoned  forth  from  his  living  tomb. 

It  is  essential  to  say  a  few  words  respecting  the 
•victim  of  this  now  almost  forgotten  murder.  He  was 
an  old  bachelor,  and  possessed  of  great  wealth,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  house  and  real  estate  which  constituted 
what  remained  of  the  ancient  Pyncheon  property.  Be- 
ing of  an  eccentric  and  melancholy  turn  of  mind,  and 
greatly  given  to  rummaging  old  records  and  hearken- 
ing to  old  traditions,  he  had  brought  himself,  it  is 
averred,  to  the  conclusion  that  Matthew  Maule,  the 
wizard,  had  been  foully  wronged  out  of  his  home- 
stead, if  not  out  of  his  life.  Such  being  the  case,  and 
he,  the  old  bachelor,  in  possession  of  the  ill-gotten 
spoil,  —  with  the  black  stain  of  blood  sunken  deep 
into  it,  and  still  to  be  scented  by  conscientious  nos- 
trils, —  the  question  occurred,  whether  it  were  not  in> 


38      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

perative  upon  him,  even  at  this  late  hour,  to  mak« 
restitution  to  Maule's  posterity.  To  a  man  living  so 
much  in  the  past,  and  so  little  in  the  present,  as  the 
secluded  and  antiquarian  old  bachelor,  a  century  and 
a  half  seemed  not  so  vast  a  period  as  to  obviate  the 
propriety  of  substituting  right  for  wrong.  It  was  tha 
belief  of  those  who  knew  him  best,  that  he  would 
positively  have  taken  the  very  singular  step  of  giving 
up  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  to  the  representa- 
tive of  Matthew  Maule,  but  for  the  unspeakable  tu- 
mult which  a  suspicion  of  the  old  gentleman's  project 
awakened  among  his  Pyncheon  relatives.  Their  exer- 
tions had  the  effect  of  suspending  his  purpose  ;  but  it 
was  feared  that  he  would  perform,  after  death,  by  the 
operation  of  his  last  will,  what  he  had  so  hardly  been 
prevented  from  doing  in  his  proper  lifetime.  But 
there  is  no  one  thing  which  men  so  rarely  do,  what- 
ever the  provocation  or  inducement,  as  to  bequeath 
patrimonial  property  away  from  their  own  blood.  They 
may  love  other  individuals  far  better  than  their  rela- 
tives, —  they  may  even  cherish  dislike,  or  positive 
hatred,  to  the  latter ;  but  yet,  in  view  of  death,  the 
strong  prejudice  of  propinquity  revives,  and  impels  the 
testator  to  send  down  his  estate  in  the  line  marked 
out  by  custom  so  immemorial  that  it  looks  like  nature. 
In  all  the  Pyncheons,  this  feeling  had  the  energy  of 
disease.  It  was  too  powerful  for  the  conscientious 
scruples  of  the  old  bachelor ;  at  whose  death,  accord- 
ingly, the  mansion-house,  together  with  most  of  his 
other  riches,  passed  into  the  possession  of  his  next 
legal  representative. 

This  was  a  nephew,  the  cousin  of  the  miserable 
young  man  who  had  been  convicted  of  the  uncle's 
murder.  The  new  heir,  up  to  the  period  of  his  acces- 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILf.  89 

sion,  was  reckoned  rather  a  dissipated  youth,  but  had 
at  once  reformed,  and  made  himself  an  exceedingly 
respectable  member  of  society.  In  fact,  he  showed 
more  of  the  Pyncheon  quality,  and  had  won  higher 
eminence  in  the  world  than  any  of  his  race  since  the 
tune  of  the  original  Puritan.  Applying  himself  in 
earlier  manhood  to  the  study  of  the  law,  and  having 
a  natural  tendency  towards  office,  he  had  attained, 
many  years  ago,  to  a  judicial  situation  in  some  inferior 
court,  which  gave  him  for  life  the  very  desirable  and 
imposing  title  of  judge.  Later,  he  had  engaged  in 
politics,  and  served  a  part  of  two  terms  in  Congress, 
besides  making  a  considerable  figure  in  both  branches 
of  the  State  legislature.  Judge  Pyncheon  was  un- 
questionably an  honor  to  his  race.  He  had  built 
himself  a  country-seat  within  a  few  miles  of  his  native 
town,  and  there  spent  such  portions  of  his  time  as 
could  be  spared  from  public  service  in  the  display 
of  every  grace  and  virtue  —  as  a  newspaper  phrased 
it,  on  the  eve  of  an  election  —  befitting  the  Christian, 
the  good  citizen,  the  horticulturist,  and  the  gentleman. 
There  were  few  of  the  Pyncheons  left  to  sun  them- 
selves in  the  glow  of  the  Judge's  prosperity.  In  re- 
spect to  natural  increase,  the  breed  had  not  thriven ; 
it  appeared  rather  to  be  dying  out.  The  only  mem- 
bers of  the  family  known  to  be  extant  were,  first,  the 
Judge  himself,  and  a  single  surviving  son,  who  was 
now  travelling  in  Europe ;  next,  the  thirty  years'  pris- 
oner, already  alluded  to,  and  a  sister  of  the  latter, 
who  occupied,  in  an  extremely  retired  manner,  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  in  which  she  had  a  life- 
estate  by  the  will  of  the  old  bachelor.  She  was  un- 
derstood to  be  wretchedly  poor,  and  seemed  to  make 
it  her  choice  to  remain  so ;  inasmuch  as  her  affluent 


40      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

cousin,  the  Judge,  had  repeatedly  offered  her  all  the 
comforts  of  life,  either  in  the  old  mansion  or  his  owm 
modern  residence.  The  last  and  youngest  Pyncheon 
was  a  little  country-girl  of  seventeen,  the  daughter  of 
another  of  the  Judge's  cousins,  who  had  married  a 
young  woman  of  no  family  or  property,  and  died  early 
and  in  poor  circumstances.  His  widow  had  recently 
taken  another  husband. 

As  for  Matthew  Maule's  posterity,  it  was  supposed 
now  to  be  extinct.  For  a  very  long  period  after  the 
witchcraft  delusion,  however,  the  Maules  had  con' 
tinned  to  inhabit  the  town  where  their  progenitor  had 
suffered  so  unjust  a  death.  To  all  appearance,  they 
were  a  quiet,  honest,  well-meaning  race  of  people, 
cherishing  no  malice  against  individuals  or  the  public 
for  the  wrong  which  had  been  done  them ;  or  if,  at 
their  own  fireside,  they  transmitted,  from  father  to 
child,  any  hostile  recollection  of  the  wizard's  fate  and 
their  lost  patrimony,  it  was  never  acted  upon,  nor 
openly  expressed.  Nor  would  it  have  been  singular 
had  they  ceased  to  remember  that  the  House  of  the 
Seven  Gables  was  resting  its  heavy  framework  on  a 
foundation  that  was  rightfully  their  own.  There  is 
something  so  massive,  stable,  and  almost  irresistibly 
imposing  in  the  exterior  presentment  of  established 
rank  and  great  possessions,  that  their  very  existence 
seems  to  give  them  a  right  to  exist ;  at  least,  so  excel- 
lent a  counterfeit  of  right,  that  few  poor  and  humble 
men  have  moral  force  enough  to  question  it,  even  in 
their  secret  minds.  Such  is  the  case  now,  after  so 
many  ancient  prejudices  have  been  overthrown  ;  and 
it  was  far  more  so  in  ante-Revolutionary  days,  when 
the  aristocracy  could  venture  to  be  proud,  and  the  low 
were  content  to  be  abased.  Thus  the  Maules,  at  all 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  41 

events,  kept  their  resentments  within  their  own  breasts. 
They  were  generally  poverty-stricken  ;  always  plebeian 
and  obscure ;  working  with  unsuccessful  diligence  at 
handicrafts ;  laboring  on  the  wharves,  or  following  the 
sea,  as  sailors  before  the  mast ;  living  here  and  there 
about  the  town,  in  hired  tenements,  and  coming  finally 
to  the  almshouse  as  the  natural  home  of  their  old  age. 
At  last,  after  creeping  as  it  were,  for  such  a  length  of 
time,  along  the  utmost  verge  of  the  opaque  puddle 
of  obscurity,  they  had  taken  that  downright  plunge, 
which,  sooner  or  later,  is  the  destiny  of  all  families, 
whether  princely  or  plebeian.  For  thirty  years  past, 
neither  town-record,  nor  gravestone,  nor  the  directory, 
nor  the  knowledge  or  memory  of  man,  bore  any  trace 
of  Matthew  Maule's  descendants.  His  blood  might 
possibly  exist  elsewhere  ;  here,  where  its  lowly  current 
could  be  traced  so  far  back,  it  had  ceased  to  keep  an 
onward  course. 

So  long  as  any  of  the  race  were  to  be  found,  they 
had  been  marked  out  from  other  men  —  not  strikingly, 
nor  as  with  a  sharp  line,  but  with  an  effect  that  was 
felt  rather  than  spoken  of  —  by  an  hereditary  charac- 
ter of  reserve.  Their  companions,  or  those  who  en- 
deavored to  become  such,  grew  conscious  of  a  circle 
round  about  the  Maules,  within  the  sanctity  or  the 
spell  of  which,  in  spite  of  an  exterior  of  sufficient 
frankness  and  good-fellowship,  it  was  impossible  for 
any  man  to  step.  It  was  this  indefinable  peculiarity, 
perhaps,  that,  by  insulating  them  from  human  aid, 
kept  them  always  so  unfortunate  in  life.  It  certainly 
operated  to  prolong  in  their  case,  and  to  confirm  to 
them  as  their  only  inheritance,  those  feelings  of  repug- 
nance and  superstitious  terror  with  which  the  people 
of  the  town,  even  after  awakening  from  their  frenzy, 


42      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

continued  to  regard  the  memory  of  the  reputed  witche* 
The  mantle,  or  rather  the  ragged  cloak,  of  old  Mat- 
thew  Maule,  had  fallen  upon  his  children.  They  were 
half  believed  to  inherit  mysterious  attributes ;  the  fam- 
ily eye  was  said  to  possess  strange  power.  Among 
other  good-for-nothing  properties  and  privileges,  one 
was  especially  assigned  them,  —  that  of  exercising  an 
influence  over  people's  dreams.  The  Pyncheons,  if  all 
stories  were  true,  haughtily  as  they  bore  themselves  irk 
the  noonday  streets  of  their  native  town,  were  no  bet- 
ter than  bond-servants  to  these  plebeian  Maules,  on 
entering  the  topsy-turvy  commonwealth  of  sleep.  Mod- 
ern psychology,  it  may  be,  will  endeavor  to  reduce 
these  alleged  necromancies  within  a  system,  instead 
of  rejecting  them  as  altogether  fabulous. 

A  descriptive  paragraph  or  two,  treating  of  the 
seven-gabled  mansion  in  its  more  recent  aspect,  will 
bring  this  preliminary  chapter  to  a  close.  The  street 
in  which  it  upreared  its  venerable  peaks  has  long 
ceased  to  be  a  fashionable  quarter  of  the  town ;  so 
that,  though  the  old  edifice  was  surrounded  by  habita- 
tions of  modern  date,  they  were  mostly  small,  built 
entirely  of  wood,  and  typical  of  the  most  plodding 
uniformity  of  common  life.  Doubtless,  however,  the 
whole  story  of  human  existence  may  be  latent  in  each 
of  them,  but  with  no  picturesqueness,  externally,  that 
can  attract  the  imagination  or  sympathy  to  seek  it 
there.  But  as  for  the  old  structure  of  our  story,  its 
white-oak  frame,  and  its  boards,  shingles,  and  crum- 
bling plaster,  and  even  the  huge,  clustered  chimney 
in  the  midst,  seemed  to  constitute  only  the  least  and 
meanest  part  of  its  reality.  So  much  of  mankind's: 
varied  experience  had  passed  there,  —  so  much  hav 
been  suffered,  and  something,  too,  enjoyed,  — 


THE  OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  4S 

fte  very  timbers  were  oozy,  as  with  the  moisture  of 
a  heart.  It  was  itself  like  a  great  human  heart,  with 
a  life  of  its  own,  and  full  of  rich  and  sombre  reminis- 
cences. 

The  deep  projection  of  the  second  story  gave  the 
house  such  a  meditative  look,  that  you  could  not  pass 
it  without  the  idea  that  it  had  secrets  to  keep,  and  an 
eventful  history  to  moralize  upon.  In  front,  just  on 
the  edge  of  the  unpaved  sidewalk,  grew  the  Pyncheon 
Elm,  which,  in  reference  to  such  trees  as  one  usually 
meets  with,  might  well  be  termed  gigantic.  It  had 
been  planted  by  a  great-grandson  of  the  first  Pyn- 
cheon, and,  though  now  fourscore  years  of  age,  of 
perhaps  nearer  a  hundred,  was  still  in  its  strong  and 
broad  maturity,  throwing  its  shadow  from  side  to  side 
of  the  street,  overtopping  the  seven  gables,  and  sweep- 
ing the  whole  black  roof  with  its  pendent  foliage.  It 
gave  beauty  to  the  old  edifice,  and  seemed  to  make 
it  a  part  of  nature.  The  street  having  been  widened 
about  forty  years  ago,  the  front  gable  was  now  pre- 
cisely on  a  line  with  it.  On  either  side  extended  a 
ruinous  wooden  fence  of  open  lattice-work,  through 
which  could  be  seen  a  grassy  yard,  and,  especially  in 
the  angles  of  the  building,  an  enormous  fertility  of 
burdocks,  with  leaves,  it  is  hardly  an  exaggeration  to 
say,  two  or  three  feet  long.  Behind  the  house  there 
appeared  to  be  a  garden,  which  undoubtedly  had  once 
been  extensive,  but  was  now  infringed  upon  by  other 
enclosures,  or  shut  in  by  habitations  and  outbuildings 
that  stood  on  another  street.  It  would  be  an  omission, 
trifling,  indeed,  but  unpardonable,  were  we  to  forget 
the  green  moss  that  had  long  since  gathered  over  the 
projections  of  the  windows,  and  on  the  slopes  of  the 
roof ;  nor  must  we  fail  to  direct  the  reader's  eye  to 


44      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

a  crop,  not  of  weeds,  but  flower-shrubs,  which  were 
growing  aloft  in  the  air,  not  a  great  way  from  the 
chimney,  in  the  nook  between  two  of  the  gables.  They 
were  called  Alice's  Posies.  The  tradition  was,  that 
a  certain  Alice  Pyncheon  had  flung  up  the  seeds,  in 
sport,  and  that  the  dust  of  the  street  and  the  decay 
of  the  roof  gradually  formed  a  kind  of  soil  for  them- 
out  of  which  they  grew,  when  Alice  had  long  been  in 
her  grave.  However  the  flowers  might  have  come 
there,  it  was  both  sad  and  sweet  to  observe  how  Na- 
ture adopted  to  herself  this  desolate,  decaying,  gusty, 
rusty  old  house  of  the  Pyncheon  family ;  and  how  the 
ever-returning  summer  did  her  best  to  gladden  it  with 
tender  beauty,  and  grew  melancholy  in  the  effort. 

There  is  one  other  feature,  very  essential  to  be 
noticed,  but  which,  we  greatly  fear,  may  damage  any 
picturesque  and  romantic  impression  which  we  have 
been  willing  to  throw  over  our  sketch  of  this  respect- 
able edifice.  In  the  front  gable,  under  the  impending 
brow  of  the  second  story,  and  contiguous  to  the  street, 
was  a  shop-door,  divided  horizontally  in  the  midst,  and 
with  a  window  for  its  upper  segment,  such  as  is  often 
seen  in  dwellings  of  a  somewhat  ancient  date.  This 
same  shop-door  had  been  a  subject  of  no  slight  morti- 
fication to  the  present  occupant  of  the  august  Pyn« 
cheon  House,  as  well  as  to  some  of  her  predecessors. 
The  matter  is  disagreeably  delicate  to  handle ;  but, 
since  the  reader  must  needs  be  let  into  the  secret,  he 
will  please  to  understand,  that,  about  a  century  ago, 
the  head  of  the  Pyncheons  found  himself  involved  in 
serious  financial  difficulties.  The  fellow  (gentleman, 
as  he  styled  himself)  can  hardly  have  been  other  than 
a  spurious  interloper;  for,  instead  of  seeking  office 
from  the  king  or  the  royal  governor,  or  urging  hii 


THE   OLD  PYNCHEON  FAMILY.  45 

hereditary  claim  to  Eastern  lands,  he  bethought  him* 
self  of  no  better  avenue  to  wealth  than  by  cutting  a 
shop-door  through  the  side  of  his  ancestral  residence. 
It  was  the  custom  of  the  tune,  indeed,  for  merchants 
to  store  their  goods  and  transact  business  in  their  own 
dwellings.  But  there  was  something  pitifully  small 
in  this  old  Pyncheon's  mode  of  setting  about  his  com. 
mercial  operations ;  it  was  whispered,  that,  with  his 
own  hands,  all  beruffled  as  they  were,  he  used  to  give 
change  for  a  shilling,  and  would  turn  a  half-penny 
twice  over,  to  make  sure  that  it  was  a  good  one.  Be- 
yond all  question,  he  had  the  blood  of  a  petty  huckster 
in  his  veins,  through  whatever  channel  it  may  have 
found  its  way  there. 

Immediately  on  his  death,  the  shop-door  had  been 
locked,  bolted,  and  barred,  and,  down  to  the  period  of 
our  story,  had  probably  never  once  been  opened.  The 
old  counter,  shelves,  and  other  fixtures  of  the  little 
shop  remained  just  as  he  had  left  them.  It  used  to 
be  affirmed,  that  the  dead  shop-keeper,  in  a  white  wig, 
a  faded  velvet  coat,  an  apron  at  his  waist,  and  his 
ruffles  carefully  turned  back  from  his  wrists,  might 
be  seen  through  the  chinks  of  the  shutters,  any  night 
of  the  year,  ransacking  his  till,  or  poring  over  the 
dingy  pages  of  his  day-book.  From  the  look  of  un- 
utterable woe  upon  his  face,  it  appeared  to  be  his 
doom  to  spend  eternity  in  a  vain  effort  to  make  his 
accounts  balance. 

And  now — in  a  very  humble  way,  as  will  be  seen— 
we  proceed  to  open  our  narrative. 


n. 

THE  LITTLE  SHOP— WINDOW. 

IT  still  lacked  half  an  hour  of  sunrise,  when  Misa 
Hepzibah  Pyncheon  —  we  will  not  say  awoke,  it  be- 
ing doubtful  whether  the  poor  lady  had  so  much  as 
closed  her  eyes  during  the  brief  night  of  midsummef 
—  but,  at  all  events,  arose  from  her  solitary  pillow, 
and  began  what  it  would  be  mockery  to  term  the 
adornment  of  her  person.  Far  from  us  be  the  in- 
decorum of  assisting,  even  in  imagination,  at  a  maiden 
lady's  toilet !  Our  story  must  therefore  await  Miss 
Hepzibah  at  the  threshold  of  her  chamber ;  only  pre- 
suming, meanwhile,  to  note  some  of  the  heavy  sighs 
that  labored  from  her  bosom,  with  little  restraint  as 
to  their  lugubrious  depth  and  volume  of  sound,  inas- 
much as  they  could  be  audible  to  nobody  save  a  dis- 
embodied listener  like  ourself.  The  Old  Maid  was 
alone  in  the  old  house.  Alone,  except  for  a  certain 
respectable  and  orderly  young  man,  an  artist  in  the 
daguerreotype  line,  who,  for  about  three  months  back, 
had  been  a  lodger  in  a  remote  gable,  —  quite  a  house 
by  itself,  indeed,  —  with  locks,  bolts,  and  oaken  bars 
on  all  the  intervening  doors.  Inaudible,  consequently, 
were  poor  Miss  Hepzibah's  gusty  sighs.  Inaudible 
the  creaking  joints  of  her  stiffened  knees,  as  she  knelt 
down  by  the  bedside.  And  inaudible,  too,  by  mortal 
ear,  but  heard  with  all-comprehending  love  and  pity  in 
the  farthest  heaven,  that  almost  agony  of  prayer — now 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  47 

whispered,  now  a  groan,  now  a  struggling  silence  — - 
wherewith  she  besought  the  Divine  assistance  through 
the  day !  Evidently,  this  is  to  be  a  day  of  more  than 
ordinary  trial  to  Miss  Hepzibah,  who,  for  above  a 
quarter  of  a  century  gone  by,  has  dwelt  in  strict  seclu- 
sion, taking  no  part  in  the  business  of  life,  and  just  as 
little  in  its  intercourse  and  pleasures.  Not  with  such 
fervor  prays  the  torpid  recluse,  looking  forward  to  the 
cold,  sunless,  stagnant  calm  of  a  day  that  is  to  be  like 
innumerable  yesterdays ! 

The  maiden  lady's  devotions  are  concluded.  Will 
she  now  issue  forth  over  the  threshold  of  our  story  ? 
Not  yet,  by  many  moments.  First,  every  drawer  in. 
the  tall,  old-fashioned  bureau  is  to  be  opened,  with 
difficulty,  and  with  a  succession  of  spasmodic  jerks ; 
then,  all  must  close  again,  with  the  same  fidgety  re- 
luctance. There  is  a  rustling  of  stiff  silks  ;  a  tread  of 
backward  and  forward  footsteps  to  and  fro  across  the 
chamber.  We  suspect  Miss  Hepzibah,  moreover,  of 
taking  a  step  upward  into  a  chair,  in  order  to  give 
heedful  regard  to  her  appearance  on  all  sides,  and  at 
full  length,  in  the  oval,  dingy-framed  toilet-glass,  that 
hangs  above  her  table.  Truly !  well,  indeed !  who 
would  have  thought  it !  Is  all  this  precious  time  to 
be  lavished  on  the  matutinal  repair  and  beautifying  oi 
an  elderly  person,  who  never  goes  abroad,  whom  no 
body  ever  visits,  and  from  whom,  when  she  shall  have 
done  her  utmost,  it  were  the  best  charity  to  turn  one'fc 
eyes  another  way  ? 

Now  she  is  almost  ready.  Let  us  pardon  her  one 
other  pause ;  for  it  is  given  to  the  sole  sentiment,  or, 
we  might  better  say,  —  heightened  and  rendered  in- 
tense, as  it  has  been,  by  sorrow  and  seclusion,  —  to  the 
strong  passion  of  her  life.  We  heard  the  turning  of 


48      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

a  key  in  a  small  lock ;  she  has  opened  a  secret  drawer 
of  an  escritoire,  and  is  probably  looking  at  a  certain 
miniature,  done  in  Malbone's  most  perfect  style,  and 
representing  a  face  worthy  of  no  less  delicate  a  pencil. 
It  was  once  our  good  fortune  to  see  this  picture.  It  is 
a  likeness  of  a  young  man,  in  a  silken  dressing-gown 
of  an  old  fashion,  the  soft  richness  of  which  is  well 
adapted  to  the  countenance  of  reverie,  with  its  full, 
tender  lips,  and  beautiful  eyes,  that  seem  to  indicate 
not  so  much  capacity  of  thought,  as  gentle  and  volupt- 
uous emotion.  Of  the  possessor  of  such  features  we 
shall  have  a  right  to  ask  nothing,  except  that  he  would 
take  the  rude  world  easily,  and  make  himself  happy  in 
it.  Can  it  have  been  an  early  lover  of  Miss  Hepzibah  ? 
No ;  she  never  had  a  lover  —  poor  thing,  how  could 
she  ?  —  nor  ever  knew,  by  her  own  experience,  what 
love  technically  means.  And  yet,  her  undying  faith 
and  trust,  her  fresh  remembrance,  and  continual  de- 
votedness  towards  the  original  of  that  miniature,  have 
been  the  only  substance  for  her  heart  to  feed  upon. 

She  seems  to  have  put  aside  the  miniature,  and  is 
standing  again  before  the  toilet-glass.  There  are  tears 
to  be  wiped  off.  A  few  more  footsteps  to  and  fro ; 
and  here,  at  last,  —  with  another  pitiful  sigh,  like  a 
gust  of  chill,  damp  wind  out  of  a  long-closed  vault,  the 
door  of  which  has  accidentally  been  set  ajar,  —  here 
comes  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon !  Forth  she  steps 
into  the  dusky,  time-darkened  passage ;  a  tall  figure, 
clad  in  black  silk,  with  a  long  and  shrunken  waist, 
feeling  her  way  towards  the  stairs  like  a  near-sighted 
person,  as  in  truth  she  is. 

The  sun,  meanwhile,  if  not  already  above  the  hori- 
zon, was  ascending  nearer  and  nearer  to  its  verge.  A 
few  clouds,  floating  high  upward,  caught  some  of  the 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  49 

earliest  light,  and  threw  down  its  golden  gleam  on  the 
windows  of  all  the  houses  in  the  street,  not  forgetting 
the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  which  —  many  such 
sunrises  as  it  had  witnessed  — looked  cheerfully  at  the 
present  one.  The  reflected  radiance  served  to  show, 
pretty  distinctly,  the  aspect  and  arrangement  of  the 
room  which  Hepzibah  entered,  after  descending  the 
stairs.  It  was  a  low-studded  room,  with  a  beam  across 
the  ceiling,  panelled  with  dark  wood,  and  having  a 
large  chimney-piece,  set  round  with  pictured  tiles,  but 
now  closed  by  an  iron  fire-board,  through  which  ran 
the  funnel  of  a  modern  stove.  There  was  a  carpet  on 
the  floor,  originally  of  rich  texture,  but  so  worn  and 
faded  in  these  latter  years  that  its  once  brilliant  figure 
had  quite  vanished  into  one  indistinguishable  hue.  In 
the  way  of  furniture,  there  were  two  tables :  one,  con- 
structed with  perplexing  intricacy  and  exhibiting  as 
many  feet  as  a  centipede  ;  the  other,  most  delicately 
wrought,  with  four  long  and  slender  legs,  so  apparently 
frail  that  it  was  almost  incredible  what  a  length  of 
time  the  ancient  tea-table  had  stood  upon  them.  Half 
a  dozen  chairs  stood  about  the  room,  straight  and  stiff, 
and  so  ingeniously  contrived  for  the  discomfort  of  the 
human  person  that  they  were  irksome  even  to  sight, 
and  conveyed  the  ugliest  possible  idea  of  the  state  of 
society  to  which  they  could  have  been  adapted.  One 
exception  there  was,  however,  in  a  very  antique  elbow- 
chair,  with  a  high  back,  carved  elaborately  in  oak, 
and  a  roomy  depth  within  its  arms,  that  made  up,  by 
its  spacious  comprehensiveness,  for  the  lack  of  any  of 
those  artistic  curves  which  abound  in  a  modern  chair. 
As  for  ornamental  articles  of  furniture,  we  recollect 
but  two,  if  such  they  may  be  called.  One  was  a  map 
of  the  Pyncheon  territory  at  the  eastward,  not  e» 


60      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

graved,  but  the  handiwork  of  some  skilful  old  draugnts* 
man,  and  grotesquely  illuminated  with  pictures  of  In- 
dians and  wild  beasts,  among  which  was  seen  a  lion  ; 
the  natural  history  of  the  region  being  as  little  known 
as  its  geography,  which  was  put  down  most  fantastic- 
ally awry.  The  other  adornment  was  the  portrait  of 
old  Colonel  Pyncheon,  at  two  thirds  length,  represent- 
ing the  stern  features  of  a  Puritanic-looking  personage, 
in  a  skull-cap,  with  a  laced  band  and  a  grizzly  beard  j 
holding  a  Bible  with  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  up- 
lifting an  iron  sword-hilt.  The  latter  object,  being 
more  successfully  depicted  by  the  artist,  stood  out  in 
far  greater  prominence  than  the  sacred  volume.  Face 
to  face  with  this  picture,  on  entering  the  apartment, 
Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon  came  to  a  pause  ;  regarding 
it  with  a  singular  scowl,  a  strange  contortion  of  the 
brow,  which,  by  people  who  did  not  know  her,  would 
probably  have  been  interpreted  as  an  expression  of 
bitter  anger  and  ill-will.  But  it  was  no  such  thing. 
She,  in  fact,  felt  a  reverence  for  the  pictured  visage, 
of  which  only  a  far-descended  and  time-stricken  virgin 
could  be  susceptible ;  and  this  forbidding  scowl  was 
the  innocent  result  of  her  near-sightedness,  and  an 
effort  so  to  concentrate  her  powers  of  vision  as  to  sub- 
stitute a  firm  outline  of  the  object  instead  of  a  vague 
one. 

We  must  linger  a  moment  on  this  unfortunate  ex- 
pression of  poor  Hepzibah's  brow.  Her  scowl,  —  as 
the  world,  or  such  part  of  it  as  sometimes  caught  a 
transitory  glimpse  of  her  at  the  window,  wickedly  per- 
sisted in  calling  it,  —  her  scowl  had  done  Miss  Hepzi- 
bah a  very  ill  office,  in  establishing  her  character  as 
an  ill-tempered  old  maid ;  nor  does  it  appear  improba- 
ble that,  by  often  gazing  at  herself  in  a  dim  looking- 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  61 

glass,  and  perpetually  encountering  her  own  frown 
within  its  ghostly  sphere,  she  had  been  led  to  interpret 
the  expression  almost  as  unjustly  as  the  world  did. 
"  How  miserably  cross  I  look !  "  she  must  often  have 
whispered  to  herself ;  and  ultimately  have  fancied  her- 
self so,  by  a  sense  of  inevitable  doom.  But  her  heart 
never  frowned.  It  was  naturally  tender,  sensitive, 
and  full  of  little  tremors  and  palpitations;  all  of 
which  weaknesses  it  retained,  while  her  visage  was 
growing  so  perversely  stern,  and  even  fierce.  Nor 
had  Hepzibah  ever  any  hardihood,  except  what  came 
from  the  very  warmest  nook  in  her  affections. 

All  this  time,  however,  we  are  loitering  faint-heart- 
edly on  the  threshold  of  our  story.  In  very  truth,  we 
have  an  invincible  reluctance  to  disclose  what  Miss 
Hepzibah  Pyncheon  was  about  to  do. 

It  has  already  been  observed,  that,  in  the  basement 
story  of  the  gable  fronting  on  the  street,  an  unworthy 
ancestor,  nearly  a  century  ago,  had  fitted  up  a  shop. 
Ever  since  the  old  gentleman  retired  from  trade,  and 
fell  asleep  under  his  coffin-lid,  not  only  the  shop-door, 
but  the  inner  arrangements,  had  been  suffered  to  re- 
main unchanged;  while  the  dust  of  ages  gathered 
inch-deep  over  the  shelves  and  counter,  and  partly 
filled  an  old  pair  of  scales,  as  if  it  were  of  value 
enough  to  be  weighed.  It  treasured  itself  up,  too,  in 
the  half-open  till,  where  there  still  lingered  a  base  six- 
pence, worth  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  hereditary 
pride  which  had  here  been  put  to  shame.  Such  had 
been  the  state  and  condition  of  the  little  shop  in  old 
Hepzibah' s  childhood,  when  she  and  her  brother  used 
to  play  at  hide-and-seek  in  its  forsaken  precincts.  So 
it  had  remained,  until  within  a  few  days  past. 

But  now,  though  the  shop-window  was  still  closely 


62      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

curtained  from  the  public  gaze,  a  remarkable  change 
had  taken  place  in  its  interior.  The  rich  and  heavy 
festoons  of  cobweb,  which  it  had  cost  a  long  ancestral 
succession  of  spiders  their  life's  labor  to  spin  and 
weave,  had  been  carefully  brushed  away  from  the  ceil 
ing.  The  counter,  shelves,  and  floor  had  all  been 
scoured,  and  the  latter  was  overstrewn  with  fresh  blue 
sand.  The  brown  scales,  too,  had  evidently  undergone 
rigid  discipline,  in  an  unavailing  effort  to  rub  off  the 
rust,  which,  alas !  had  eaten  through  and  through 
their  substance.  Neither  was  the  little  old  shop  any 
longer  empty  of  merchantable  goods.  A  curious  eye, 
privileged  to  take  an  account  of  stock,  and  investi- 
gate behind  the  counter,  would  have  discovered  a  bar- 
rel, —  yea,  two  or  three  barrels  and  half  ditto,  —  one 
containing  flour,  another  apples,  and  a  third,  perhaps, 
Indian  meal.  There  was  likewise  a  square  box  of 
pine-wood,  full  of  soap  in  bars ;  also,  another  of  the 
same  size,  in  which  were  tallow-candles,  ten  to  the 
pound.  A  small  stock  of  brown  sugar,  some  white 
beans  and  split  peas,  and  a  few  other  commodities  of 
low  price,  and  such  as  are  constantly  in  demand,  made 
up  the  bulkier  portion  of  the  merchandise.  It  might 
have  been  taken  for  a  ghostly  or  phantasmagoric  re- 
flection of  the  old  shop-keeper  Pyncheon's  shabbily 
provided  shelves,  save  that  some  of  the  articles  were 
of  a  description  and  outward  form  which  could  hardly 
have  been  known  in  his  day.  For  instance,  there  was 
a  glass  pickle- jar,  filled  with  fragments  of  Gibraltar 
rock;  not,  indeed,  splinters  of  the  veritable  stone 
foundation  of  the  famous  fortress,  but  bits  of  delectable 
candy,  neatly  done  up  in  white  paper.  Jim  Crow, 
moreover,  was  seen  executing  his  world-renowned 
dance,  in  gingerbread.  A  party  of  leaden  dragooni 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  53 

galloping  along  one  of  the  shelves,  in  equip- 
ments and  uniform  of  modern  cut;  and  there  were 
some  sugar  figures,  with  no  strong  resemblance  to  the 
humanity  of  any  epoch,  but  less  unsatisfactorily  repre- 
senting our  own  fashions  than  those  of  a  hundred 
years  ago.  Another  phenomenon,  still  more  strikingly 
modern,  was  a  package  of  lucifer  matches,  which,  in 
old  times,  would  have  been  thought  actually  to  borrow 
their  instantaneous  flame  from  the  nether  fires  of 
Tophet. 

In  short,  to  bring  the  matter  at  once  to  a  point,  it 
was  incontrovertibly  evident  that  somebody  had  taken 
the  shop  and  fixtures  of  the  long-retired  and  forgotten 
Mr.  Pyncheon,  and  was  about  to  renew  the  enterprise 
of  that  departed  worthy,  with  a  different  set  of  cus- 
tomers. Who  could  this  bold  adventurer  be  ?  And, 
of  all  places  in  the  world,  why  had  he  chosen  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables  as  the  scene  of  his  com- 
mercial speculations  ? 

We  return  to  the  elderly  maiden.  She  at  length 
withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  dark  countenance  of  the 
Colonel's  portrait,  heaved  a  sigh,  —  indeed,  her  breast 
was  a  very  cave  of  ^Eolus  that  morning,  —  and  stept 
across  the  room  on  tiptoe,  as  is  the  customary  gait  of 
elderly  women.  Passing  through  an  intervening  pas- 
sage, she  opened  a  door  that  communicated  with  the 
shop,  just  now  so  elaborately  described.  Owing  to 
the  projection  of  the  upper  story  —  and  still  more  to 
the  thick  shadow  of  the  Pyncheon  Elm,  which  stood 
almost  directly  in  front  of  the  gable  —  the  twilight, 
here,  was  still  as  much  akin  to  night  as  morning. 
Another  heavy  sigh  from  Miss  Hepzibah!  After  a 
moment's  pause  on  the  threshold,  peering  towards  the 
window  with  her  near-sighted  scowl,  as  if  frowning 


54      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

down  some  bitter  enemy,  she  suddenly  projected  her* 
self  into  the  shop.  The  haste,  and,  as  it  were,  the 
galvanic  impulse  of  the  movement,  were  really  quite 
startling. 

Nervously  —  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  we  might  almost 
cay  —  she  began  to  busy  herself  in  arranging  some 
children's  playthings,  and  other  little  wares,  on  the 
shelves  and  at  the  shop-window.  In  the  aspect  of  this 
dark-arrayed,  pale-faced,  lady-like  old  figure  there  was 
a  deeply  tragic  character  that  contrasted  irreconcilably 
with  the  ludicrous  pettiness  of  her  employment.  It 
seemed  a  queer  anomaly,  that  so  gaunt  and  dismal  a 
personage  should  take  a  toy  in  hand ;  a  miracle,  that 
the  toy  did  not  vanish  in  her  grasp ;  a  miserably  ab- 
surd idea,  that  she  should  go  on  perplexing  her  stiff 
and  sombre  intellect  with  the  question  how  to  tempt 
little  boys  into  her  premises !  Yet  such  is  undoubt- 
edly her  object.  Now  she  places  a  gingerbread  ele- 
phant against  the  window,  but  with  so  tremulous  a 
touch  that  it  tumbles  upon  the  floor,  with  the  dismem- 
berment of  three  legs  and  its  trunk ;  it  has  ceased  to 
be  an  elephant,  and  has  become  a  few  bits  of  musty 
gingerbread.  There,  again,  she  has  upset  a  tumbler 
of  marbles,  all  of  which  roll  different  ways,  and  each 
individual  marble,  devil-directed,  into  the  most  diffi- 
cult obscurity  that  it  can  find.  Heaven  help  our  poor 
old  Hepzibah,  and  forgive  us  for  taking  a  ludicrous 
view  of  her  position  !  As  her  rigid  and  rusty  frame 
goes  down  upon  its  hands  and  knees,  in  quest  of  the 
absconding  marbles,  we  positively  feel  so  much  the 
more  inclined  to  shed  tears  of  sympathy,  from  the 
very  fact  that  we  must  needs  turn  aside  and  laugh  at 
her.  For  here,  —  and  if  we  fail  to  impress  it  suitably 
|pon  the  reader,  it  is  our  own  fault,  not  that  of  tht 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  55 

theme,  —  here  is  one  of  the  truest  points  of  melan- 
choly interest  that  occur  in  ordinary  life.  It  was  the 
final  throe  of  what  called  itself  old  gentility.  A  lady 
—  who  had  fed  herself  from  childhood  with  the  shad- 
owy food  of  aristocratic  reminiscences,  and  whose  re- 
ligion it  was  that  a  lady's  hand  soils  itself  irremedi- 
ably by  doing  aught  for  bread  —  this  born  lady,  after 
sixty  years  of  narrowing  means,  is  fain  to  step  down 
from  her  pedestal  of  imaginary  rank.  Poverty,  tread- 
ing closely  at  her  heels  for  a  lifetime,  has  come  up 
with  her  at  last.  She  must  earn  her  own  food,  or 
starve!  And  we  have  stolen  upon  Miss  Hepzibah 
Pyncheon,  too  irreverently,  at  the  instant  of  time 
when  the  patrician  lady  is  to  be  transformed  into  the 
plebeian  woman. 

In  this  republican  country,  amid  the  fluctuating 
waves:  of  our  social  life,  somebody  is  always  at  the 
drowning-point.  The  tragedy  is  enacted  with  as  con- 
tinual a  repetition  as  that  of  a  popular  drama  on  a 
holiday ;  and,  nevertheless,  is  felt  as  deeply,  per- 
haps, as  when  an  hereditary  noble  sinks  below  his  or- 
der. More  deeply  ;  since,  with  us,  rank  is  the  grosser 
substance  of  wealth  and  a  splendid  establishment,  and 
has  no  spiritual  existence  after  the  death  of  these,  but 
dies  hopelessly  along  with  them.  And,  therefore, 
since  we  have  been  unfortunate  enough  to  introduce 
our  heroine  at  so  inauspicious  a  juncture,  we  would 
entreat  for  a  mood  of  due  solemnity  in  the  spectators 
of  her  fate.  Let  us  behold,  in  poor  Hepzibah,  the  im- 
memorial lady,  —  two  hundred  years  old,  on  this  side 
of  the  water,  and  thrice  as  many  on  the  other,  —  with 
her  antique  portraits,  pedigrees,  coats  of  arms,  records 
and  traditions,  and  her  claim,  as  joint  heiress,  to  that 
princely  territory  at  the  eastward,  no  longer  a  wilder* 


56      THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ness,  but  a  populous  fertility,  —  born,  too,  in  Pyncheon 
Street,  under  the  Pyncheon  Elm,  and  in  the  Pyncheon 
House,  where  she  has  spent  all  her  days,  —  reduced 
now,  in  that  very  house,  to  be  the  hucksteress  of  a 
cent-shop. 

This  business  of  setting  up  a  petty  shop  is  almost 
the  only  resource  of  women,  in  circumstances  at  all 
similar  to  those  of  our  unfortunate  recluse.  With  her 
near-sightedness,  and  those  tremulous  fingers  of  hers, 
at  once  inflexible  and  delicate,  she  could  not  be  a 
seamstress ;  although  her  sampler,  of  fifty  years  gone 
by,  exhibited  some  of  the  most  recondite  specimens  of 
ornamental  needlework.  A  school  for  little  children 
had  been  often  in  her  thoughts  ;  and,  at  one  time,  she 
had  begun  a  review  of  her  early  studies  in  the  New 
England  Primer,  with  a  view  to  prepare  herself  for 
the  office  of  instructress.  But  the  love  of  children  had 
never  been  quickened  in  Hepzibah's  heart,  and  was  now 
torpid,  if  not  extinct;  she  watched  the  little  people 
of  the  neighborhood  from  her  chamber-window,  and 
doubted  whether  she  could  tolerate  a  more  intimate 
acquaintance  with  them.  Besides,  in  our  day,  the 
very  ABC  has  become  a  science  greatly  too  abstruse 
to  be  any  longer  taught  by  pointing  a  pin  from  letter 
to  letter.  A  modern  child  could  teach  old  Hepzibah 
more  than  old  Hepzibah  could  teach  the  child.  So  — 
with  many  a  cold,  deep  heart-quake  at  the  idea  of  at 
last  coming  into  sordid  contact  with  the  world,  from 
which  she  had  so  long  kept  aloof,  while  every  added 
day  of  seclusion  had  rolled  another  stone  against  the 
cavern-door  of  her  hermitage  —  the  poor  thing  be- 
thought herself  of  the  ancient  shop-window,  the  rusty 
scales,  and  dusty  till.  She  might  have  held  baok  a 
little  longer ;  but  another  circumstance,  not  yet  hinted 


THE  LITTLE   SHOP-WINDOW.  57' 

at,  had  somewhat  hastened  her  decision.  Her  humble 
preparations,  therefore,  were  duly  made,  and  the  enter- 
prise was  now  to  be  commenced.  Nor  was  she  entitled 
to  complain  of  any  remarkable  singularity  in  her  fate ; 
for,  in  the  town  of  her  nativity,  we  might  point  to  sev- 
eral little  shops  of  a  similar  description,  some  of  them 
in  houses  as  ancient  as  that  of  the  Seven  Gables ;  and 
one  or  two,  it  may  be,  where  a  decayed  gentlewoman 
stands  behind  the  counter,  as  grim  an  image  of  family 
pride  as  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon  herself. 

It  was  overpoweringly  ridiculous  —  we  must  hon- 
estly confess  it  —  the  deportment  of  the  maiden  lady 
while  setting  her  shop  in  order  for  the  public  eye. 
She  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  window,  as  cautiously  as  if 
she  conceived  some  bloody-minded  villain  to  be  watch- 
ing behind  the  elm-tree,  with  intent  to  take  her  life. 
Stretching  out  her  long,  lank  arm,  she  put  a  paper  of 
pearl  buttons,  a  jew's-harp,  or  whatever  the  small  ar- 
ticle might  be,  in  its  destined  place,  and  straightway 
vanished  back  into  the  dusk,  as  if  the  world  need 
never  hope  for  another  glimpse  of  her.  It  might  have 
been  fancied,  indeed,  that  she  expected  to  minister  to 
the  wants  of  the  community  unseen,  like  a  disem- 
bodied divinity  or  enchantress,  holding  forth  her  bar- 
gains to  the  reverential  and  awe-stricken  purchaser  in 
an  invisible  hand.  But  Hepzibah  had  no  such  flatter- 
ing dream.  She  was  well  aware  that  she  must  ul= 
timately  come  forward,  and  stand  revealed  in  her 
proper  individuality ;  but,  like  other  sensitive  persons, 
she  could  not  bear  to  be  observed  in  the  gradual  pro- 
cess, and  chose  rather  to  flash  forth  on  the  world's  as- 
tonished gaze  at  once. 

The  inevitable  moment  was  not  much  longer  to  be 
delayed.  The  sunshine  might  now  be  seen  stealing 


'68      THE  HOUSE  OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

down  the  front  of  the  opposite  house,  from  the  win 
dows  of  which  came  a  reflected  gleam,  struggling 
through  the  boughs  of  the  elm-tree,  aiid  enlightening 
the  interior  of  the  shop  more  distinctly  than  hereto- 
fore. The  town  appeared  to  be  waking  up.  A  baker's 
cart  had  already  rattled  through  the  street,  chasing 
away  the  latest  vestige  of  night's  sanctity  with  the 
jingle-jangle  of  its  dissonant  bells.  A  milkman  was 
distributing  the  contents  of  his  cans  from  door  to 
door ;  and  the  harsh  peal  of  a  fisherman's  conch  shell 
was  heard  far  off,  around  the  corner.  None  of  these 
tokens  escaped  Hepzibah's  notice.  The  moment  had 
arrived.  To  delay  longer  would  be  only  to  lengthen 
out  her  misery.  Nothing  remained,  except  to  take 
down  the  bar  from  the  shop-door,  leaving  the  entrance 
free  —  more  than  free  —  welcome,  as  if  all  were 
household  friends  —  to  every  passer-by,  whose  eyes 
might  be  attracted  by  the  commodities  at  the  window. 
This  last  act  Hepzibah  now  performed,  letting  the  bar 
fall  with  what  smote  upon  her  excited  nerves  as  a 
most  astounding  clatter.  Then  —  as  if  the  only  bar- 
rier betwixt  herself  and  the  world  had  been  thrown 
down,  and  a  flood  of  evil  consequences  would  come 
tumbling  through  the  gap  —  she  fled  into  the  inner 
parlor,  threw  herself  into  the  ancestral  elbow-chair, 
and  wept. 

Our  miserable  old  Hepzibah  !  It  is  a  heavy  annoy- 
ance to  a  writer,  who  endeavors  to  represent  nature, 
its  various  attitudes  and  circumstances,  in  a  reasona- 
bly correct  outline  and  true  coloring,  that  so  much  of 
the  mean  and  ludicrous  should  be  hopelessly  mixed  up 
with  the  purest  pathos  which  life  anywhere  supplies 
to  him.  What  tragic  dignity,  for  example,  can  be 
wrought  into  a  scene  like  this !  How  can  we  elevata 


THE  LITTLE  SHOP-WINDOW.  59 

our  history  of  retribution  for  the  sin  of  long  ago,  when, 
as  one  of  our  most  prominent  figures,  we  are  compelled 
to  introduce  —  not  a  young  and  lovely  woman,  nor  even 
the  stately  remains  of  beauty,  storm-shattered  by  af- 
fliction — but  a  gaunt,  sallow,  rusty- jointed  maiden,  in 
a  long-waisted  silk  gown,  and  with  the  strange  horror 
of  a  turban  on  her  head!  Her  visage  is  not  even 
ugly.  It  is  redeemed  from  insignificance  only  by  the 
contraction  of  her  eyebrows  into  a  near-sighted  scowl. 
And,  finally,  her  great  life-trial  seems  to  be,  that, 
after  sixty  years  of  idleness,  she  finds  it  convenient 
to  earn  comfortable  bread  by  setting  up  a  shop  in  a 
small  way.  Nevertheless,  if  we  look  through  all  the 
heroic  fortunes  of  mankind,  we  shall  find  this  same 
entanglement  of  something  mean  and  trivial  with 
whatever  is  noblest  in  joy  or  sorrow.  Life  is  made 
up  of  marble  and  mud.  And,  without  all  the  deeper 
trust  in  a  comprehensive  sympathy  above  us,  we  might 
hence  be  led  to  suspect  the  insult  of  a  sneer,  as  well 
as  an  immitigable  frown,  on  the  iron  countenance  of 
fate.  What  is  called  poetic  insight  is  the  gift  of  dis- 
cerning, in  this  sphere  of  strangely  mingled  elements, 
the  beauty  and  the  majesty  which  are  compelled  to  as- 
sume a  garb  so  sordid. 


III. 

THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER. 

Miss  HEPZIBAH  PYNCHEON  sat  in  the  oaken  elbow* 
chair,  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  giving  way  to 
that  heavy  down-sinking  of  the  heart  which  most  per- 
sons have  experienced,  when  the  image  of  hope  itself 
seems  ponderously  moulded  of  lead,  on  the  eve  of  an 
enterprise  at  once  doubtful  and  momentous.  She 
was  suddenly  startled  by  the  tinkling  alarum  —  high, 
sharp,  and  irregular — of  a  little  bell.  The  maiden  lady 
arose  upon  her  feet,  as  pale  as  a  ghost  at  cock-crow  ; 
for  she  was  an  enslaved  spirit,  and  this  the  talisman 
to  which  she  owed  obedience.  This  little  bell,  —  to 
speak  in  plainer  terms,  — being  fastened  over  the  shop- 
door,  was  so  contrived  as  to  vibrate  by  means  of  a  steel 
spring,  and  thus  convey  notice  to  the  inner  regions  of 
the  house  when  any  customer  should  cross  the  thresh- 
old. Its  ugly  and  spiteful  little  din  (heard  now  for 
the  first  time,  perhaps,  since  Hepzibah's  periwigged 
predecessor  had  retired  from  trade)  at  once  set  every 
nerve  of  her  body  in  responsive  and  tumultuous  vibra- 
tion. The  crisis  was  upon  her !  Her  first  customer 
was  at  the  door  ! 

Without  giving  herself  time  for  a  second  thought, 
she  rushed  into  the  shop,  pale,  wild,  desperate  in  ges- 
ture and  expression,  scowling  portentously,  and  look- 
ing far  better  qualified  to  do  fierce  battle  with  a  house- 
breaker than  to  stand  smiling  behind  the  counter, 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  61 

bartering  small  wares  for  a  copper  recompense.  Any 
ordinary  customer,  indeed,  would  have  turned  his 
back  and  fled.  And  yet  there  was  nothing  fierce  in 
Hepzibah's  poor  old  heart;  nor  had  she,  at  the  mo- 
ment, a  single  bitter  thought  against  the  world  at 
large,  or  one  individual  man  or  woman.  She  wished 
them  all  well,  but  wished,  too,  that  she  herself  were 
done  with  them,  and  in  her  quiet  grave. 

The  applicant,  by  this  time,  stood  within  the  door- 
way. Coming  freshly,  as  he  did,  out  of  the  morning 
light,  he  appeared  to  have  brought  some  of  its  cheery 
influences  into  the  shop  along  with  him.  It  was  a 
slender  young  man,  not  more  than  one  or  two  anc? 
twenty  years  old,  with  rather  a  grave  and  thoughtful 
expression  for  his  years,  but  likewise  a  springy  alac- 
rity and  vigor.  These  qualities  were  not  only  per- 
ceptible, physically,  in  his  make  and  motions,  but 
made  themselves  felt  almost  immediately  in  his  char- 
acter. A  brown  beard,  not  too  silken  in  its  texture, 
fringed  his  chin,  but  as  yet  without  completely  hiding 
it ;  he  wore  a  short  mustache,  too,  and  his  dark,  high- 
featured  countenance  looked  all  the  better  for  these 
natural  ornaments.  As  for  his  dress,  it  was  of  the 
simplest  kind  ;  a  summer  sack  of  cheap  and  ordinary 
material,  thin  checkered  pantaloons,  and  a  straw  hat, 
by  no  means  of  the  finest  braid.  Oak  Hall  might 
have  supplied  his  entire  equipment.  He  was  chiefly 
marked  as  a  gentleman  —  if  such,  indeed,  he  made 
any  claim  to  be  —  by  the  rather  remarkable  whiteness 
and  nicety  of  his  clean  linen. 

He  met  the  scowl  of  old  Hepzibah  without  apparent 
alarm,  as  having  heretofore  encountered  it  and  found 
it  harmless. 

"  So,  my  dear  Miss  Pyncheon,"  said  the  daguerreo- 


62      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

typist,  —  for  it  was  that  sole  other  occupant  of  the 
seven-gabled  mansion,  — "I  am  glad  to  see  that  you 
have  not  shrunk  from  your  good  purpose.  I  merely 
look  in  to  offer  my  best  wishes,  and  to  ask  if  I  can  as-> 
sist  you  any  further  in  your  preparations." 

People  in  difficulty  and  distress,  or  in  any  manner 
at  odds  with  the  world,  can  endure  a  vast  amount  of 
harsh  treatment,  and  perhaps  be  only  the  stronger  for 
it ;  whereas  they  give  way  at  once  before  the  simplest 
expression  of  what  they  perceive  to  be  genuine  sym- 
pathy. So  it  proved  with  poor  Hepzibah ;  for,  when 
she  saw  the  young  man's  smile,  —  looking  so  much 
the  brighter  on  a  thoughtful  face,  —  and  heard  his 
kindly  tone,  she  broke  first  into  a  hysteric  giggle  and 
then  began  to  sob. 

"  Ah^  Mr.  Holgrave,"  cried  she,  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak,  "  I  never  can  go  through  with  it !  Never, 
never,  never !  I  wish  I  were  dead,  and  in  the  old 
family -tomb,  with  all  my  forefathers !  With  my 
father,  and  my  mother,  and  my  sister !  Yes,  and  with 
my  brother,  who  had  far  better  find  me  there  than 
here  !  The  world  is  too  chill  and  hard,  —  and  I  am 
too  old,  and  too  feeble,  and  too  hopeless !  " 

"Oh,  believe  me,  Miss  Hepzibah,"  said  the  young 
man,  quietly,  "  these  feelings  will  not  trouble  you  any 
longer,  after  you  are  once  fairly  in  the  midst  of  your 
enterprise.  They  are  unavoidable  at  this  moment, 
standing,  as  you  do,  on  the  outer  verge  of  your  long 
seclusion,  and  peopling  the  world  with  ugly  shapes, 
which  you  will  soon  find  to  be  as  unreal  as  the  giants 
and  ogres  of  a  child's  story-book.  I  find  nothing  so 
singular  in  life,  as  that  everything  appears  to  lose  its 
substance  the  instant  one  actually  grapples  with  it.  So 
it  will  be  with  what  you  think  so  terrible." 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  63 

•*  But  I  am  a  woman ! "  said  Hepzibah,  piteously. 
**  I  was  going  to  say,  a  lady,  —  but  I  consider  that  as 
past." 

"  Well ;  no  matter  if  it  be  past !  "  answered  the 
artist,  a  strange  gleam  of  half -hidden  sarcasm  flashing 
through  the  kindliness  of  his  manner.  "  Let  it  go! 
You  are  the  better  without  it.  I  speak  frankly,  my 
dear  Miss  Pyncheon  !  for  are  we  not  friends  ?  I  look 
upon  this  as  one  of  the  fortunate  days  of  your  life. 
It  ends  an  epoch  and  begins  one.  Hitherto,  the  life- 
blood  has  been  gradually  chilling  in  your  veins  as  you 
sat  aloof,  within  your  circle  of  gentility,  while  the  rest 
of  the  world  was  fighting  out  its  battle  with  one  kind 
of  necessity  or  another.  Henceforth,  you  will  at  least 
have  the  sense  of  healthy  and  natural  effort  for  a  pur- 
pose, and  of  lending  your  strength — be  it  great  or 
small  —  to  the  united  struggle  of  mankind.  This  is 
success,  —  all  the  success  that  anybody  meets  with !  " 

"  It  is  natural  enough,  Mr.  Holgrave,  that  you 
should  have  ideas  like  these,"  rejoined  Hepzibah, 
drawing  up  her  gaunt  figure,  with  slightly  offended 
dignity.  "  You  are  a  man,  a  young  man,  and  brought 
up,  I  suppose,  as  almost  everybody  is  nowadays,  with 
a  view  to  seeking  your  fortune.  But  I  was  born  a 
lady,  and  have  always  lived  one ;  no  matter  in  what 
narrowness  of  means,  always  a  lady !  " 

"  But  I  was  not  born  a  gentleman  ;  neither  have  I 
lived  like  one,"  said  Holgrave,  slightly  smiling ;  "  so, 
my  dear  madam,  you  will  hardly  expect  me  to  sym- 
pathize with  sensibilities  of  this  kind ;  though,  unless 
I  deceive  myself,  I  have  some  imperfect  comprehen- 
sion of  them.  These  names  of  gentleman  and  lady 
had  a  meaning,  in  the  past  history  of  the  world,  and 
conferred  privileges,  desirable  or  otherwise,  on  those 


64   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

entitled  to  bear  them.  In  the  present  —  and  still 
more  in  the  future  condition  of  society  —  they  imply, 
not  privilege,  but  restriction  !  " 

"  These  are  new  notions,"  said  the  old  gentlewoman, 
shaking  her  head.  "  I  shall  never  understand  them ; 
neither  do  I  wish  it." 

"We  will  cease  to  speak  of  them,  then,"  replied 
the  artist,  with  a  friendlier  smile  than  his  last  one, 
"  and  I  will  leave  you  to  feel  whether  it  is  not  better 
to  be  a  true  woman  than  a  lady.  Do  you  really  think, 
Miss  Hepzibah,  that  any  lady  of  your  family  has  ever 
done  a  more  heroic  thing,  since  this  house  was  built, 
than  you  are  performing  hi  it  to-day  ?  Never ;  and  if 
the  Pyncheons  had  always  acted  so  nobly,  I  doubt 
whether  an  old  wizard  Maule's  anathema,  of  which 
you  told  me  once,  would  have  had  much  weight  with 
Providence  against  them." 

"  Ah  !  —  no,  no  !  "  said  Hepzibah,  not  displeased  at 
this  allusion  to  the  sombre  dignity  of  an  inherited  curse. 
'*  If  old  Maule's  ghost,  or  a  descendant  of  his,  could 
see  me  behind  the  counter  to-day,  he  would  call  it  the 
fulfilment  of  his  worst  wishes.  But  I  thank  you  for 
your  kindness,  Mr.  Holgrave,  and  will  do  my  utmost 
to  be  a  good  shop-keeper." 

"  Pray  do,"  said  Holgrave,  "  and  let  me  have  the 
pleasure  of  being  your  first  customer.  I  am  about 
taking  a  walk  to  the  sea-shore,  before  going  to  my 
rooms,  where  I  misuse  Heaven's  blessed  sunshine  by 
tracing  out  human  features  through  its  agency.  A 
few  of  those  biscuits  dipt  in  sea-water,  will  be  just 
what  I  need  for  breakfast.  What  is  the  price  of  half 
a  dozen  ?  " 

"  Let  me  be  a  lady  a  moment  longer,"  replied  Hep- 
zibah,  with  a  manner  of  antique  stateliness  to  which 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  65 

a  melancholy  smile  lent  a  kind  of  grace.  She  put  the 
biscuits  into  his  hand,  but  rejected  the  compensation. 
"  A  Pyncheon  must  not,  at  ail  events  under  her  fore- 
fathers' roof,  receive  money  for  a  morsel  of  bread 
from  her  only  friend  !  " 

Holgrave  took  his  departure,  leaving  her,  for  the 
moment,  with  spirits  not  quite  so  much  depressed. 
Soon,  however,  they  had  subsided  nearly  to  their 
former  dead  level.  With  a  beating  heart,  she  listened 
to  the  footsteps  of  early  passengers,  which  now  began 
to  be  frequent  along  the  street.  Once  or  twice  they 
seemed  to  linger;  these  strangers,  or  neighbors,  as 
the  case  might  be,  were  looking  at  the  display  of  toys 
and  petty  commodities  in  Hepzibah's  shop -window. 
She  was  doubly  tortured ;  in  part,  with  a  sense  of 
overwhelming  shame  that  strange  and  unloving  eyes 
should  have  the  privilege  of  gazing,  and  partly  because 
the  idea  occurred  to  her,  with  ridiculous  importunity, 
that  the  window  was  not  arranged  so  skilfully,  nor 
nearly  to  so  much  advantage,  as  it  might  have  been. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  whole  fortune  or  failure  of  her  shop 
might  depend  on  the  display  of  a  different  set  of  arti- 
cles, or  substituting  a  fairer  apple  for  one  which  ap- 
peared to  be  specked.  So  she  made  the  change,  and 
straightway  fancied  that  everything  was  spoiled  by 
it ;  not  recognizing  that  it  was  the  nervousness  of  the 
juncture,  and  her  own  native  squeamishness  as  an  old 
maid,  that  wrought  all  the  seeming  nftschief. 

Anon,  there  was  an  encounter,  just  at  the  door-step, 
betwixt  two  laboring  men,  as  their  rough  voices  denoted 
them  to  be.  After  some  slight  talk  about  their  own 
affairs,  one  of  them  chanced  to  notice  the  shop-window, 
and  directed  the  other's  attention  to  it. 

"  See  here  I  "  cried  he ;  "  what  do  you  think  of 
VOL.  in.  5 


66      THE  HOUSE  OF   THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

this?  Trade  seems  to  be  looking  up  in  Pyncheon 
Street!" 

"  Well,  well,  this  is  a  sight,  to  be  sure !  "  exclaimed 
the  other.  "  In  the  old  Pyncheon  House,  and  under- 
neath the  Pyncheon  Elm  !  Who  would  have  thought 
it  ?  Old  Maid  Pyncheon  is  setting  up  a  cent-shop !  " 

"  Will  she  make  it  go,  think  you,  Dixey  ?  "  said  his 
friend.  "  I  don't  call  it  a  very  good  stand.  There 's 
another  shop  just  round  the  corner." 

"  Make  it  go !  "  cried  Dixey,  with  a  most  con- 
temptuous expression,  as  if  the  very  idea,  wsre  impos- 
sible  to  be  conceived.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Why,  her 
face  —  I  've  seen  it,  for  I  dug  her  garden  for  her  one 
year  —  her  face  is  enough  to  frighten  the  Old  Nick 
himself,  if  he  had  ever  so  great  a  mind  to  trade  with 
her.  People  can't  stand  it,  I  tell  you!  She  scowls 
dreadfully,  reason  or  none,  out  of  pure  ugliness  of 
temper ! " 

"  Well,  that 's  not  so  much  matter,"  remarked  the 
other  man.  "  These  sour-tempered  folks  are  mostly 
handy  at  business,  and  know  pretty  well  what  they  are 
about.  But,  as  you  say,  I  don't  think  she  '11  do  much. 
This  business  of  keeping  cent-shops  is  overdone,  like 
all  other  kinds  of  trade,  handicraft,  and  bodily  labor. 
I  know  it,  to  my  cost !  My  wife  kept  a  cent-shop 
three  months,  and  lost  five  dollars  on  her  outlay !  " 

"  Poor  business !  "  responded  Dixey,  in  a  tone  as  if 
he  were  shaking  his  head,  —  "  poor  business  !  " 

For  some  reason  or  other,  not  very  easy  to  analyza 
there  had  hardly  been  so  bitter  a  pang  in  all  her  pre 
vious  misery  about  the  matter  as  what  thrilled  Hepzi- 
bah's  heart,  on  overhearing  the  above  conversation. 
The  testimony  in  regard  to  her  scowl  was  frightfully 
important ;  it  seemed  to  hold  up  her  image  wholly  re» 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  67 

lieved  from  the  false  light  of  her  self-partialities,  and 
so  hideous  that  she  dared  not  look  at  it.  She  was  ab- 
surdly hurt,  moreover,  by  the  slight  and  idle  effect 
that  her  setting  up  shop  —  an  event  of  such  breathless 
interest  to  herself  —  appeared  to  have  upon  the  pub- 
He,  of  which  these  two  men  were  the  nearest  repre* 
sentatives.  A  glance ;  a  passing  word  or  two ;  a 
coarse  laugh ;  and  she  was  doubtless  forgotten  before 
they  turned  the  corner !  They  cared  nothing  for  her 
dignity,  and  just  as  little  for  her  degradation.  Then, 
also,  the  augury  of  ill-success,  uttered  from  the  sure 
wisdom  of  experience,  fell  upon  her  half-dead  hope 
like  a  clod  into  a  grave.  The  man's  wife  had  already 
tried  the  same  experiment,  and  failed!  How  could 
the  born  lady,  —  the  recluse  of  half  a  lifetime,  utterly 
unpractised  in  the  world,  at  sixty  years  of  age,  —  how 
could  she  ever  dream  of  succeeding,  when  the  hard, 
vulgar,  keen,  busy,  hackneyed  New  England  woma» 
had  lost  five  dollars  on  her  little  outlay !  Success  pre' 
sented  itself  as  an  impossibility,  and  the  hope  of  it  a^ 
a  wild  hallucination. 

Some  malevolent  spirit,  doing  his  utmost  to  drive 
Hepzibah  mad,  unrolled  before  her  imagination  a  kind 
of  panorama,  representing  the  great  thoroughfare  of  9. 
city  all  astir  with  customers.    So  many  and  so  magnif- 
icent shops  as  there  were  !     Groceries,  toy-shops,  dry 
goods  stores,  with  their  immense  panes  of  plate-glass 
their  gorgeous  fixtures,  their  vast  and  complete  assort 
ments  of  merchandise,  in  which  fortunes  had  been  in 
vested ;  and  those  noble  mirrors  at  the  farther  en<7 
of  each  establishment,  doubling  all  this  wealth  by  a 
brightly  burnished  vista  of  unrealities !     On  one  side 
of  the  street  this  splendid  bazaar,  with  a  multitude  of 
perfumed  and  glossy  salesmen,  smirking,  smiling,  bow- 


68      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ing,  and  measuring  out  the  goods.  On  the  other,  the 
dusky  old  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  with  the  anti- 
quated shop-window  under  its  projecting  story,  and 
Hepzibah  herself,  in  a  gown  of  rusty  black  silk,  behind 
the  counter,  scowling  at  the  world  as  it  went  by  i  This 
mighty  contrast  thrust  itself  forward  as  a  fair  expres- 
sion of  the  odds  against  which  she  was  to  begin  her 
struggle  for  a  subsistence.  Success  ?  Preposterous ! 
She  would  never  think  of  it  again  !  The  house  might 
just  as  well  be  buried  in  an  eternal  fog  while  all  other 
houses  had  the  sunshine  on  them  ;  for  not  a  foot  would 
ever  cross  the  threshold,  nor  a  hand  so  much  as  try 
the  door ! 

But,  at  this  instant,  the  shop-bell,  right  over  her 
head,  tinkled  as  if  it  were  bewitched.  The  old  gentle- 
woman's heart  seemed  to  be  attached  to  the  same  steel 
spring,  for  it  went  through  a  series  of  sharp  jerks,  in 
unison  with  the  sound.  The  door  was  thrust  open, 
although  no  human  form  was  perceptible  on  the  other 
side  of  the  half -window.  Hepzibah,  nevertheless, 
stood  at  a  gaze,  with  her  hands  clasped,  looking  very 
much  as  if  she  had  summoned  up  an  evil  spirit,  and 
were  afraid,  yet  resolved,  to  hazard  the  encounter. 

"  Heaven  help  me  !  "  she  groaned,  mentally.  "  Now 
is  my  hour  of  need ! " 

The  door,  which  moved  with  difficulty  on  its  creak- 
ing and  rusty  hinges,  being  forced  quite  open,  a 
square  and  sturdy  little  urchin  became  apparent,  with 
cheeks  as  red  as  an  apple.  He  was  clad  rather  shab- 
bily (but,  as  it  seemed,  more  owing  to  his  mother's 
carelessness  than  his  father's  poverty),  in  a  blue  apron, 
very  wide  and  short  trousers,  shoes  somewhat  out  at 
the  toes,  and  a  chip-hat,  with  the  frizzles  of  his  curly 
hair  sticking  through  its  crevices.  A  book  and  a 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  69 

3mall  slate,  under  his  arm,  indicated  that  he  was  on 
his  way  to  school.  He  stared  at  Hepzibah  a  moment, 
as  an  elder  customer  than  himself  would  have  been 
likely  enough  to  do,  not  knowing  what  to  make  of  the 
tragic  attitude  and  queer  scowl  wherewith  she  re- 
garded him. 

"  Well,  child,"  said  she,  taking  heart  at  sight  of  a 
personage  so  little  formidable,  —  "  well,  my  child,  what 
did  you  wish  for  ?  " 

"  That  Jim  Crow  there  in  the  window,"  answered 
the  urchin,  holding  out  a  cent,  and  pointing  to  the 
gingerbread  figure  that  had  attracted  his  notice,  as  he 
loitered  along  to  school ;  "  the  one  that  has  not  a 
broken  foot." 

So  Hepzibah  put  forth  her  lank  arm,  and,  taking 
the  effigy  from  the  shop-window,  delivered  it  to  her 
first  customer. 

"  No  matter  for  the  money,"  said  she,  giving  him  a 
little  push  towards  the  door ;  for  her  old  gentility  was 
contumaciously  squeamish  at  sight  of  the  copper  coin, 
and,  besides,  it  seemed  such  pitiful  meanness  to  take 
the  child's  pocket-money  in  exchange  for  a  bit  of  stale 
gingerbread.  "No  matter  for  the  cent.  You  are 
welcome  to  Jim  Crow." 

The  child,  staring  with  round  eyes  at  this  instance 
of  liberality,  wholly  unprecedented  in  his  large  ex- 
perience of  cent-shops,  took  the  man  of  gingerbread, 
and  quitted  the  premises.  No  sooner  had  he  reached 
the  sidewalk  (little  cannibal  that  he  was !)  than  Jim 
Crow's  head  was  in  his  mouth.  As  he  had  not  been 
careful  to  shut  the  door,  Hepzibah  was  at  the  pains  of 
closing  it  after  him,  with  a  pettish  ejaculation  or  two 
about  the  troublesomeness  of  young  people,  and  par- 
ticularly of  small  boys.  She  had  just  placed  another 


70      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

representative  of  the  renowned  Jim  Crow  at  the  wift 
dow,  when  again  the  shop-bell  tinkled  clamorously, 
and  again  the  door  being  thrust  open,  with  its  charac- 
teristic jerk  and  jar,  disclosed  the  same  sturdy  little 
urchin  who,  precisely  two  minutes  ago,  had  made  his 
exit.  The  crumbs  and  discoloration  of  the  cannibal 
feast,  as  yet  hardly  consummated,  were  exceedingly 
visible  about  his  mouth. 

"  What  is  it  now,  child  ?  "  asked  the  maiden  lady 
rather  impatiently ;  "  did  you  come  back  to  shut  the 
door?" 

"  No,"  answered  the  urchin,  pointing  to  the  figure 
that  had  just  been  put  up ;  "I  want  that  other  Jim 
Crow." 

"  Well,  here  it  is  for  you,"  said  Hepzibah,  reach- 
ing it  down;  but  recognizing  that  this  pertinacious 
customer  would  not  quit  her  on  any  other  terms,  so 
long  as  she  had  a  gingerbread  figure  in  her  shop,  she 
partly  drew  back  her  extended  hand,  "  Where  is  the 
cent  ?  " 

The  little  boy  had  the  cent  ready,  but,  like  a  true- 
born  Yankee,  would  have  preferred  the  better  bargain 
to  the  worse.  Looking  somewhat  chagrined,  he  put 
the  coin  into  Hepzibah's  hand,  and  departed,  sending 
the  second  Jim  Crow  in  quest  of  the  former  one.  The 
new  shopkeeper  dropped  the  first  solid  result  of  her 
commercial  enterprise  into  the  till.  It  was  done  ! 
The  sordid  stain  of  that  copper  coin  could  never  be 
washed  away  from  her  palm.  The  little  school-boy, 
aided  by  the  impish  figure  of  the  negro  dancer,  had 
wrought  an  irreparable  ruin.  The  structure  of  an- 
cient aristocracy  had  been  demolished  by  him,  even  as 
if  his  childish  gripe  had  torn  down  the  seven-gabled 
mansion.  Now  let  Hepzibah  turn  the  old  Puncheon 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  71 

portraits  with  their  faces  to  the  wall,  and  take  the  map 
of  her  Eastern  territory  to  kindle  the  kitchen  fire,  and 
blow  up  the  flame  with  the  empty  breath  of  her  ances- 
tral traditions !  What  had  she  to  do  with  ancestry  ? 
Nothing;  no  more  than  with  posterity!  No  lady, 
now,  but  simply  Hepzibah  Pyncheon,  a  forlorn  old 
maid,  and  keeper  of  a  cent-shop ! 

Nevertheless,  even  while  she  paraded  these  ideas 
somewhat  ostentatiously  through  her  mind,  it  is  alto- 
gether surprising  what  a  calmness  had  come  over -her. 
The  anxiety  and  misgivings  which  had  tormented  her, 
whether  asleep  or  in  melancholy  day-dreams,  ever 
since  her  project  began  to  take  an  aspect  of  solidity, 
had  now  vanished  quite  away.  She  felt  the  novelty 
of  her  position,  indeed,  but  no  longer  with  disturbance 
or  affright.  Now  and  then,  there  came  a  thrill  of  al- 
most youthful  enjoyment.  It  was  the  invigorating 
breath  of  a  fresh  outward  atmosphere,  after  the  long 
torpor  and  monotonous  seclusion  of  her  life.  So 
wholesome  is  effort !  So  miraculous  the  strength  that 
we  do  not  know  of  !  The  healthiest  glow  that  Hepzi- 
bah had  known  for  years  had  come  now  in  the  dreaded 
crisis,  when,  for  the  first  time,  she  had  put  forth  her 
hand  to  help  herself.  The  little  circlet  of  the  school- 
boy's copper  coin  —  dim  and  lustreless  though  it  was, 
with  the  small  services  which  it  had  been  doing  here 
and  there  about  the  world  —  had  proved  a  talisman, 
fragrant  with  good,  and  deserving  to  be  set  in  gold 
and  worn  next  her  heart.  It  was  as  potent,  and  per- 
haps endowed  with  the  same  kind  of  efficacy,  as  a  gal- 
vanic ring  !  Hepzibah,  at  all  events,  was  indebted  to 
its  subtile  operation  both  in  body  and  spirit ;  so  much 
the  more,  as  it  inspired  her  with  energy  to  get  some 
breakfast,  at  which,  still  the  better  to  keep  up  her 


72       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES, 

courage,  she  allowed  herself  an  extra  spoonful  in  hei 
infusion  of  black  tea. 

Her  introductory  day  of  shop-keeping  did  not  run 
on,  however,  without  many  and  serious  interruptions 
of  this  mood  of  cheerful  vigor.  As  a  general  rule, 
Providence  seldom  vouchsafes  to  mortals  any  more 
than  just  that  degree  of  encouragement  which  suffices 
to  keep  them  at  a  reasonably  full  exertion  of  their 
powers.  In  the  case  of  our  old  gentlewoman,  after 
the  excitement  of  new  effort  had  subsided,  the  de- 
spondency of  her  whole  life  threatened,  ever  and  anon, 
to  return.  It  was  like  the  heavy  mass  of  clouds  which 
we  may  often  see  obscuring  the  sky,  and  making  a 
gray  twilight  everywhere,  until,  towards  nightfall,  it 
yields  temporarily  to  a  glimpse  of  sunshine.  But,  al- 
ways, the  envious  cloud  strives  to  gather  again  across 
the  streak  of  celestial  azure. 

Customers  came  in,  as  the  forenoon  advanced,  but 
rather  slowly ;  in  some  cases,  too,  it  must  be  owned, 
with  little  satisfaction  either  to  themselves  or  Miss 
Hepzibah ;  nor,  on  the  whole,  with  an  aggregate  of 
very  rich  emolument  to  the  till.  A  little  girl,  sent  by 
her  mother  to  match  a  skein  of  cotton  thread,  of  a  pe- 
culiar hue,  took  one  that  the  near-sighted  old  lady  pro- 
nounced extremely  like,  but  soon  came  running  back, 
with  a  blunt  and  cross  message,  that  it  would  not  do, 
and,  besides,  was  very  rotten !  Then,  there  was  a  pale, 
care  -  wrinkled  woman,  not  old  but  haggard,  and  al- 
ready with  streaks  of  gray  among  her  hair,  like  sil- 
ver ribbons ;  one  of  those  women,  naturally  delicate, 
whom  you  at  once  recognize  as  worn  to  death  by  a 
brute  —  probably  a  drunken  brute  —  of  a  husband, 
and  at  least  nine  children.  She  wanted  a  few  pounds 
of  flour,  and  offered  the  money,  which  the  decayed 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  7£ 

gentlewoman  silently  rejected,  and  gave  the  poor  soul 
better  measure  than  if  she  had  taken  it.  Shortly  af- 
terwards, a  man  in  a  blue  cotton  frock,  much  soiled, 
came  in  and  bought  a  pipe,  filling  the  whole  shop, 
meanwhile,  with  the  hot  odor  of  strong  drink,  not  only 
exhaled  in  the  torrid  atmosphere  of  his  breath,  but 
oozing  out  of  his  entire  system,  like  an  inflammable 
gas.  It  was  impressed  on  Hepzibah's  mind  that  this 
was  the  husband  of  the  care-wrinkled  woman.  He 
asked  for  a  paper  of  tobacco ;  and  as  she  had  neg- 
lected to  provide  herself  with  the  article,  her  brutal 
customer  dashed  down  his  newly-bought  pipe  and  left 
the  shop,  muttering  some  unintelligible  words,  which 
had  the  tone  and  bitterness  of  a  curse.  Hereupon 
Hepzibah  threw  up  her  eyes,  unintentionally  scowling 
in  the  face  of  Providence  ! 

No  less  than  five  persons,  during  the  forenoon,  in- 
quired for  ginger-beer,  or  root-beer,  or  any  drink  of  a 
similar  brewage,  and,  obtaining  nothing  of  the  kind, 
went  off  in  an  exceedingly  bad  humor.  Three  of  them 
left  the  door  open,  and  the  other  two  pulled  it  so 
spitefully  in  going  out  that  the  little  bell  played  the 
very  deuce  with  Hepzibah's  nerves.  A  round,  bus- 
tling, fire-ruddy  housewife  of  the  neighborhood,  burst 
breathless  into  the  shop,  fiercely  demanding  yeast; 
and  when  the  poor  gentlewoman,  with  her  cold  shy- 
ness of  manner,  gave  her  hot  customer  to  understand 
that  she  did  not  keep  the  article,  this  very  capable 
housewife  took  upon  herself  to  administer  a  regular 
rebuke. 

"  A  cent-shop,  and  no  yeast !  "  quoth  she  ;  "  that 
will  never  do!  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing? 
Your  loaf  will  never  rise,  no  more  than  mine  will  to 
day.  You  had  better  shut  up  shop  at  once." 


74      THE  HOUSE  OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  Well,"  said  Hepzibah,  heaving  a  deep  sigh,  "  per 
haps  I  had!" 

Several  times,  moreover,  besides  the  above  instance, 
her  lady-like  sensibilities  were  seriously  infringed  upon 
by  the  familiar,  if  not  rude,  tone  with  which  people 
addressed  her.  They  evidently  considered  themselves 
not  merely  her  equals,  but  her  patrons  and  superiors. 
Now,  Hepzibah  had  unconsciously  flattered  herself 
with  the  idea  that  there  would  be  a  gleam  or  halo,  of 
some  kind  or  other,  about  her  person,  which  would  in- 
sure an  obeisance  to  her  sterling  gentility,  or,  at  least, 
a  tacit  recognition  of  it.  On  the  other  hand,  nothing 
tortured  her  more  intolerably  than  when  this  recogni- 
tion was  too  prominently  expressed.  To  one  or  two 
rather  officious  offers  of  sympathy,  her  responses  were 
little  short  of  acrimonious  ;  and,  we  regret  to  say, 
Hepzibah  was  thrown  into  a  positively  unchristian 
state  of  mind  by  the  suspicion  that  one  of  her  cus- 
tomers was  drawn  to  the  shop,  not  by  any  real  need 
of  the  article  which  she  pretended  to  seek,  but  by 
a  wicked  wish  to  stare  at  her.  The  vulgar  creature 
was  determined  to  see  for  herself  what  sort  of  a  figure 
a  mildewed  piece  of  aristocracy,  after  wasting  all  the 
bloom  and  much  of  the  decline  of  her  life  apart  from 
the  world,  would  cut  behind  a  counter.  In  this  par. 
ticular  case,  however  mechanical  and  innocuous  it 
might  be  at  other  times,  Hepzibah's  contortion  of  brow 
served  her  in  good  stead. 

"  I  never  was  so  frightened  in  my  life ! "  said  the 
curious  customer,  in  describing  the  incident  to  one  of 
her  acquaintances.  "  She  's  a  real  old  vixen,  take  my 
word  of  it !  She  says  little,  to  be  sure ;  but  if  you 
could  only  see  the  mischief  in  her  eye !  " 

On  the  whole,  therefore,  her  new  experience  led  our 


THE  FIRST  CUSTOMER.  75 

Decayed  gentlewoman  to  very  disagreeable  conclusions 
as  to  the  temper  and  manners  of  what  she  termed  the 
lower  classes,  whom  heretofore  she  had  looked  down 
upon  with  a  gentle  and  pitying  complaisance,  as  her- 
self occupying  a  sphere  of  unquestionable  superiority. 
But,  unfortunately,  she  had  likewise  to  struggle 
against  a  bitter  emotion  of  a  directly  opposite  kind :  a 
sentiment  of  virulence,  we  mean,  towards  the  idle  aris- 
tocracy to  which  it  had  so  recently  been  her  pride  to 
belong.  When  a  lady,  in  a  delicate  and  costly  sum 
mer  garb,  with  a  floating  veil  and  gracefully  sway- 
ing gown,  and,  altogether,  an  etherial  lightness  that 
made  you  look  at  her  beautifully  slippered  feet,  to 
see  whether  she  trod  on  the  dust  or  floated  in  the  air, 
—  when  such  a  vision  happened  to  pass  through  this 
retired  street,  leaving  it  tenderly  and  delusively  fra- 
grant with  her  passage,  as  if  a  bouquet  of  tea-roses 
had  been  borne  along,  —  then  again,  it  is  to  be  feared, 
old  Hepzibah's  scowl  could  no  longer  vindicate  itself 
entirely  on  the  plea  of  near-sightedness. 

"  For  what  end,"  thought  she,  giving  vent  to  that 
feeling  of  hostility  which  is  the  only  real  abasement 
of  the  poor  in  presence  of  the  rich,  —  "  for  what  good 
end,  in  the  wisdom  of  Providence,  does  that  woman 
live  ?  Must  the  •  whole  world  toil,  that  the  palms  of 
her  hands  may  be  kept  white  and  delicate  ?  " 

Then,  ashamed  and  penitent,  she  hid  her  face. 

"  May  God  forgive  me !  "  said  she. 

Doubtless,  God  did  forgive  her.  But,  taking  the 
inward  and  outward  history  of  the  first  half -day  into 
consideration,  Hepzibah  began  to  fear  that  the  shop 
would  prove  her  ruin  in  a  moral  and  religious  point 
of  view,  without  contributing  very  essentially  towards 
even  her  temporal  welfare. 


IV. 

A  DAY  BEHIND  THE  COUNTER. 

TOWARDS  noon,  Hepzibah  saw  an  elderly  gentle 
man,  large  and  portly,  and  of  remarkably  dignified 
demeanor,  passing  slowly  along  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  white  and  dusty  street.  On  coming  within  the 
shadow  of  the  Pyncheon  Elm,  he  stopt,  and  (taking 
off  his  hat,  meanwhile,  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow)  seemed  to  scrutinize,  with  especial  interest, 
the  dilapidated  and  rusty- visaged  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables.  He  himself,  in  a  very  different  style,  was  as 
well  worth  looking  at  as  the  house.  No  better  model 
need  be  sought,  nor  could  have  been  found,  of  a  very 
high  order  of  respectability,  which,  by  some  indescrib- 
able magic,  not  merely  expressed  itself  in  his  looks 
and  gestures,  but  even  governed  the  fashion  of  his 
garments,  and  rendered  them  all  proper  and  essential 
to  the  man.  Without  appearing  to  differ,  in  any 
tangible  way,  from  other  people's  clothes,  there  was 
yet  a  wide  and  rich  gravity  about  them  that  must 
have  been  a  characteristic  of  the  wearer,  since  it  could 
not  be  defined  as  pertaining  either  to  the  cut  or  ma- 
terial. His  gold -headed  cane,  too,  — a  serviceable 
staff,  of  dark  polished  wood,  —  had  similar  traits,  and, 
had  it  chosen  to  take  a  walk  by  itself,  would  have 
been  recognized  anywhere  as  a  tolerably  adequate  rep- 
resentative of  its  master.  This  character  —  which 
showed  itself  so  strikingly  in  everything  about  him, 


A   DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  77 

and  the  effect  of  which  we  seek  to  convey  to  the  reader 
—  went  no  deeper  than  his  station,  habits  of  life,  and 
external  circumstances.  One  perceived  him  to  be  a 
personage  of  marked  influence  and  authority;  and, 
especially,  you  could  feel  just  as  certain  that  he  was 
opulent  as  if  he  had  exhibited  his  bank  account,  or 
as  if  you  had  seen  him  touching  the  twigs  of  the  Pyn- 
cheon  Elm,  and,  Midas-like,  transmuting  them  to  gold, 

In  his  youth,  he  had  probably  been  considered  a 
handsome  man ;  at  his  present  age,  his  brow  was  too 
heavy,  his  temples  too  bare,  his  remaining  hair  too 
gray,  his  eye  too  cold,  his  lips  too  closely  compressed, 
to  bear  any  relation  to  mere  personal  beauty.  He 
would  have  made  a  good  and  massive  portrait ;  better 
now,  perhaps,  than  at  any  previous  period  of  his  life, 
although  his  look  might  grow  positively  harsh  in  the 
process  of  being  fixed  upon  the  canvas.  The  artist 
would  have  found  it  desirable  to  study  his  face,  and 
prove  its  capacity  for  varied  expression  ;  to  darken  it 
with  a  frown,  —  to  kindle  it  up  with  a  smile. 

While  the  elderly  gentleman  stood  looking  at  the 
Pyncheon  House,  both  the  frown  and  the  smile  passed 
successively  over  his  countenance.  His  eye  rested  on 
the  shop-window,  and  putting  up  a  pair  of  gold-bowed 
spectacles,  which  he  held  in  his  hand,  he  minutely  sur- 
veyed Hepzibah's  little  arrangement  of  toys  and  com- 
modities. At  first  it  seemed  not  to  please  him,  —  nay, 
to  cause  him  exceeding  displeasure,  —  and  yet,  the 
very  next  moment,  he  smiled.  While  the  latter  ex- 
pression was  yet  on  his  lips,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Hepzibah,  who  had  involuntarily  bent  forward  to  the 
window ;  and  then  the  smile  changed  from  acrid  and 
disagreeable  to  the  sunniest  complacency  and  benevo- 
lence. He  bowed,  with  a  happy  mixture  of  dignity 
courteous  kindliness,  and  pursued  his  way. 


T8      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  There  he  is ! "  said  Hepzibah  to  herself,  gulping 
down  a  very  bitter  emotion,  and,  since  she  could  not 
rid  herself  of  it,  trying  to  drive  it  back  into  her  heart. 
"  What  does  he  think  of  it,  I  wonder  ?  Does  it  please 
him  ?  Ah !  he  is  looking  back  !  " 

The  gentleman  had  paused  in  the  street,  and  turned 
himself  half  about,  still  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
shop-window.  In  fact,  he  wheeled  wholly  round,  and 
commenced  a  step  or  two,  as  if  designing  to  enter  the 
shop ;  but,  as  it  chanced,  his  purpose  was  anticipated 
by  Hepzibah's  first  customer,  the  little  cannibal  of  Jim 
Crow,  who,  staring  up  at  the  window,  was  irresistibly 
attracted  by  an  elephant  of  gingerbread.  What  a 
grand  appetite  had  this  small  urchin !  —  Two  Jim 
Crows  immediately  after  breakfast !  —  and  now  an 
elephant,  as  a  preliminary  whet  before  dinner!  By 
the  time  this  latter  purchase  was  completed,  the  el- 
derly gentleman  had  resumed  his  way,  and  turned  the 
street  corner. 

"  Take  it  as  you  like,  Cousin  Jaffrey ! "  muttered 
the  maiden  lady,  as  she  drew  back,  after  cautiously 
thrusting  out  her  head,  and  looking  up  and  down  the 
street,  —  "  take  it  as  you  like !  You  have  seen  my 
little  shop-window !  Well !  —  what  have  you  to  say  ? 
—  is  not  the  Pyncheon  House  my  own,  while  I  'm 
alive?" 

After  this  incident,  Hepzibah  retreated  to  the  back 
parlor,  where  she  at  first  caught  up  a  half-finished 
stocking,  and  began  knitting  at  it  with  nervous  and 
irregular  jerks ;  but  quickly  finding  herself  at  odds 
with  the  stitches,  she  threw  it  aside,  and  walked  hur- 
riedly about  the  room.  At  length,  she  paused  before 
the  portrait  of  the  stern  old  Puritan,  her  ancestor,  and 
the  founder  of  the  house.  In  one  sense,  this  picture 


A   DAY  BEHIND   THE  COUNTER.  79 

had  almost  faded  into  the  canvas,  and  hidden  itself 
behind  the  duskiness  of  age ;  in  another,  she  could 
not  but  fancy  that  it  had  been  growing  more  promi 
nent,  and  strikingly  expressive,  ever  since  her  earliest 
familiarity  with  it  as  a  child.  For,  while  the  physical 
outline  and  substance  were  darkening  away  from  the 
beholder's  eye,  the  bold,  hard,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
indirect  character  of  the  man  seemed  to  be  brought 
out  in  a  kind  of  spiritual  relief.  Such  an  effect  may 
occasionally  be  observed  in  pictures  of  antique  date. 
They  acquire  a  look  which  an  artist  (if  he  have 
anything  like  the  complacency  of  artists  nowadays) 
would  never  dream  of  presenting  to  a  patron  as  his 
own  characteristic  expression,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
we  at  once  recognize  as  reflecting  the  unlovely  truth 
of  a  human  soul.  In  such  cases,  the  painter's  deep 
conception  of  his  subject's  inward  traits  has  wrought 
itself  into  the  essence  of  the  picture,  and  is  seen  after 
the  superficial  coloring  has  been  rubbed  off  by  time. 

While  gazing  at  the  portrait,  Hepzibah  trembled 
under  its  eye.  Her  hereditary  reverence  made  her 
afraid  to  judge  the  character  of  the  original  so  harshly 
as  a  perception  of  the  truth  compelled  her  to  do.  But 
still  she  gazed,  because  the  face  of  the  picture  enabled 
her  —  at  least,  she  fancied  so  —  to  read  more  accu- 
rately, and  to  a  greater  depth,  the  face  which  she  had 
ijist  seen  in  the  street. 

"  This  is  the  very  man !  "  murmured  she  to  herself. 
44  Let  Jaffrey  Pyncheon  smile  as  he  will,  there  is  that 
look  beneath  I  Put  on  him  a  skull-cap,  and  a  band, 
juid  a  black  cloak,  and  a  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a 
sword  in  the  other,  —  then  let  Jaffrey  smile  as  he 
might,  —  nobody  would  doubt  that  it  was  the  old  Pyn- 
cheon  come  again !  He  has  proved  himself  the  very 


80      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  CABLES. 

man  to  build  up  a  new  house !  Perhaps,  too,  to  draw 
down  a  new  curse !  " 

Thus  did  Hepzibah  bewilder  herself  with  these 
fantasies  of  the  old  time.  She  had  dwelt  too  much 
alone,  —  too  long  in  the  Pyncheon  House,  —  until  her 
very  brain  was  impregnated  with  the  dry-rot  of  its 
timbers.  She  needed  a  walk  along  the  noonday  street 
to  keep  her  sane. 

By  the  spell  of  contrast,  another  portrait  rose  up 
before  her,  painted  with  more  daring  flattery  than  any 
artist  would  have  ventured  upon,  but  yet  so  delicate- 
ly touched  that  the  likeness  remained  perfect.  Mai- 
bone's  miniature,  though  from  the  same  original,  was 
far  inferior  to  Hepzibah's  air-drawn  picture,  at  which 
affection  and  sorrowful  remembrance  wrought  together. 
Soft,  mildly,  and  cheerfully  contemplative,  with  full, 
red  lips,  just  on  the  verge  of  a  smile,  which  the  eyes 
seemed  to  herald  by  a  gentle  kindling-up  of  their  orbs ! 
Feminine  traits,  moulded  inseparably  with  those  of  the 
other  sex !  The  miniature,  likewise,  had  this  last  pe- 
culiarity ;  so  that  you  inevitably  thought  of  the  orig- 
inal as  resembling  his  mother,  and  she  a  lovely  and 
lovable  woman,  with  perhaps  some  beautiful  infirmity 
of  character,  that  made  it  all  the  pleasanter  to  know 
and  easier  to  love  her. 

"  Yes,"  thought  Hepzibah,  with  grief  of  which  it 
was  only  the  more  tolerable  portion  that  welled  up 
from  her  heart  to  her  eyelids,  "they  persecuted  his 
mother  in  him !  He  never  was  a  Pyncheon  !  " 

But  here  the  shop-bell  rang;  it  was  like  a  sound 
from  a  remote  distance,  —  so  far  had  Hepzibah  de- 
scended into  the  sepulchral  depths  of  her  reminis- 
cences. On  entering  the  shop,  she  found  an  old  man 
there,  a  humble  resident  of  Pyncheon  Street,  and 


A   DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  81 

whom,  for  a  great  many  years  past,  she  had  suffered 
to  be  a  kind  of  familiar  of  the  house.  He  was  an  im- 
memorial personage,  who  seemed  always  to  have  had 
a  white  head  and  wrinkles,  and  never  to  have  pos- 
sessed but  a  single  tooth,  and  that  a  half-decayed  one, 
in  the  front  of  the  upper  jaw.  Well  advanced  as 
Hepzibah  was,  she  could  not  remember  when  Uncle 
Venner,  as  the  neighborhood  called  him,  had  not  gone 
up  and  down  the  street,  stooping  a  little  and  drawing 
his  feet  heavily  over  the  gravel  or  pavement.  But 
still  there  was  something  tough  and  vigorous  about 
him,  that  not  only  kept  him  in  daily  breath,  but  en- 
abled him  to  fill  a  place  which  would  else  have  been 
vacant  in  the  apparently  crowded  world.  To  go  of 
errands  with  his  slow  and  shuffling  gait,  which  made 
you  doubt  how  he  ever  was  to  arrive  anywhere ;  to 
saw  a  small  household's  foot  or  two  of  firewood,  or 
knock  to  pieces  an  old  barrel,  or  split  up  a  pine  board 
for  kindling-stuff  ;  in  summer,  to  dig  the  few  yards  of 
garden  ground  appertaining  to  a  low-rented  tenement, 
and  share  the  produce  of  his  labor  at  the  halves ;  in  win- 
ter, to  shovel  away  the  snow  from  the  sidewalk,  or  open 
paths  to  the  woodshed,  or  along  the  clothes-line ;  such 
were  some  of  the  essential  offices  which  Uncle  Venner 
performed  among  at  least  a  score  of  families.  Within 
that  circle,  he  claimed  the  same  sort  of  privilege,  and 
probably  felt  as  much  warmth  of  interest,  as  a  clergy- 
man does  in  the  range  of  his  parishioners.  Not  that 
he  laid  claim  to  the  tithe  pig ;  but,  as  an  analogous 
mode  of  reverence,  he  went  his  rounds,  every  morning 
to  gather  up  the  crumbs  of  the  table  and  overflowings 
of  the  dinner-pot,  as  food  for  a  pig  of  his  own. 

In  his  younger  days  —  for,  after  all,  there  was  a 
dim    tradition   that    he   had    been,   not  young,  but 

VOL.   III.  6 


82      IhE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

younger  —  Uncle  Venner  was  commonly  regarded  as 
rather  deficient,  than  otherwise,  in  his  wits.  In  truth 
he  had  virtually  pleaded  guilty  to  the  charge,  by 
scarcely  aiming  at  such  success  as  other  men  seek,  and 
by  taking  only  that  humble  and  modest  part  in  the 
intercourse  of  life  which  belongs  to  the  alleged  defi- 
ciency. But  now,  in  his  extreme  old  age,  —  whether 
it  were  that  his  long  and  hard  experience  had  actually 
brightened  him,  or  that  his  decaying  judgment  ren- 
dered him  less  capable  of  fairly  measuring  himself,  — 
the  venerable  man  made  pretensions  to  no  little  wis- 
dom, and  really  enjoyed  the  credit  of  it.  There  was 
likewise,  at  times,  a  vein  of  something  like  poetry  in 
him  ;  it  was  the  moss  or  wall-flower  of  his  mind  in  its 
small  dilapidation,  and  gave  a  charm  to  what  might 
have  been  vulgar  and  commonplace  in  his  earlier  and 
middle  life.  Hepzibah  had  a  regard  for  him,  because 
his  name  was  ancient  in  the  town  and  had  formerly 
been  respectable.  It  was  a  still  better  reason  for 
awarding  him  a  species  of  familiar  reverence  that  Un- 
cle Venner  was  himself  the  most  ancient  existence, 
whether  of  man  or  thing,  in  Pyncheon  Street,  except 
the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  perhaps  the  elm 
that  overshadowed  it. 

This  patriarch  now  presented  himself  before  Hepzi- 
bah, clad  in  an  old  blue  coat,  which  had  a  fashionable 
air,  and  must  have  accrued  to  him  from  the  cast-off 
wardrobe  of  some  dashing  clerk.  As  for  his  trousers, 
they  were  of  tow-cloth,  very  short  in  the  legs,  and  bag 
ging  down  strangely  in  the  rear,  but  yet  having  a  suit* 
ableness  to  his  figure  which  his  other  garment  entirely 
lacked.  His  hat  had  relation  to  no  other  part  of  hia 
dress,  and  but  very  little  to  the  head  that  wore  it. 
thus  Uncle  Venner  was  a  miscellaneous  old  gentle- 


A    DAY   BEHIND    THE    COUNTER.  83 

man,  partly  himself,  but,  in  good  measure,  somebody 
else ;  patched  together,  too,  of  different  epochs ;  an 
epitome  of  times  and  fashions. 

"So,  you  have  really  begun  trade,"  said  he, — 
"  really  begun  trade !  Well,  I  'm  glad  to  see  it. 
Young  people  should  never  live  idle  in  the  world,  nor 
old  ones  neither,  unless  when  the  rheumatize  gets  hold 
of  them.  It  has  given  me  warning  already ;  and  in 
two  or  three  years  longer,  I  shall  think  of  putting 
aside  business  and  retiring  to  my  farm.  That 's  yon- 
der,—  the  great  brick  house,  you  know,  — the  work- 
house, most  folks  call  it ;  but  I  mean  to  do  my  work 
first,  and  go  there  to  be  idle  and  enjoy  myself.  And 
I  'm  glad  to  see  you  beginning  to  do  your  work,  Miss 
Hepzibah !  " 

"  Thank  you,  Uncle  Venner,"  said  Hepzibah,  smil- 
ing ;  for  she  always  felt  kindly  towards  the  simple 
and  talkative  old  man.  Had  he  been  an  old  woman, 
she  might  probably  have  repelled  the  freedom,  which 
she  now  took  in  good  part.  "  It  is  time  for  me  to 
begin  work,  indeed !  Or,  to  speak  the  truth,  I  have 
just  begun  when  I  ought  to  be  giving  it  up." 

"  Oh,  never  say  that,  Miss  Hepzibah ! "  answered 
the  old  man.  "  You  are  a  young  woman  yet.  Why, 
I  hardly  thought  myself  younger  than  I  am  now,  it 
seems  so  little  while  ago  since  I  used  to  see  you  play- 
ing about  the  door  of  the  old  house,  quite  a  small 
child!  Oftener,  though,  you  used  to  be  sitting  at  the 
threshold,  and  looking  gravely  into  the  street;  for  you 
had  always  a  grave  kind  of  way  with  you,  —  a  grown- 
up air,  when  you  were  only  the  height  of  my  knee. 
It  seems  as  if  I  saw  you  now  ;  and  your  grandfather 
with  his  red  cloak,  and  his  white  wig,  and  his  cocked 
hat,  and  his  cane,  coming  out  of  the  house,  and  step- 


84      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ping  so  grandly  up  the  street !  Those  old  gentlemen 
that  grew  up  before  the  Revolution  used  to  put  on 
grand  airs.  In  my  young  days,  the  great  man  of  the 
town  was  commonly  called  King ;  and  his  wife,  not 
Queen  to  be  sure,  but  Lady.  Nowadays,  a  man  would 
not  dare  to  be  called  King ;  and  if  he  feels  himself  a 
little  above  common  folks,  he  only  stoops  so  much  the 
lower  to  them.  I  met  your  cousin,  the  Judge,  ten 
minutes  ago;  and,  in  my  old  tow-cloth  trousers,  as 
you  see,  the  Judge  raised  his  hat  to  me,  I  do  believe! 
At  any  rate,  the  Judge  bowed  and  smiled  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hepzibah,  with  something  bitter  steal- 
ing unawares  into  her  tone  ;  "  my  cousin  Jaffrey  is 
thought  to  have  a  very  pleasant  smile  !  " 

"  And  so  he  has !  "  replied  Uncle  Venner.  "  And 
that 's  rather  remarkable  in  a  Pyncheon  ;  for,  begging 
your  pardon,  Miss  Hepzibah,  they  never  had  the  name 
of  being  an  easy  and  agreeable  set  of  folks.  There 
was  no  getting  close  to  them.  But  now,  Miss  Hepzi- 
bah, if  an  old  man  may  be  bold  to  ask,  why  don't 
Judge  Pyncheon,  with  his  great  means,  step  forward, 
and  tell  his  cousin  to  shut  up  her  little  shop  at  once? 
It 's  for  your  credit  to  be  doing  something,  but  it 's 
not  for  the  Judge's  credit  to  let  you !  " 

"  We  won't  talk  of  this,  if  you  please,  Uncle  Ven= 
ner,"  said  Hepzibah,  coldly.  "  I  ought  to  say,  how- 
ever, that,  if  I  choose  to  earn  bread  for  myself,  it  is 
not  Judge  Pyncheon' s  fault.  Neither  will  he  deserve 
the  blame,"  added  she,  more  kindly,  remembering  Un- 
cle Venner's  privileges  of  age  and  humble  familiarity, 
M  if  I  should,  by  and  by,  find  it  convenient  to  retire 
with  you  to  your  farm." 

"  And  it 's  no  bad  place,  either,  that  farm  of  mine ! " 
cried  the  old  man,  cheerily,  as  if  there  were  something 


A  DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  85 

positively  delightful  in  the  prospect.  "  No  bad  place 
is  the  great  brick  farm-house,  especially  for  them  that 
will  find  a  good  many  old  cronies  there,  as  will  be  my 
case.  I  quite  long  to  be  among  them,  sometimes,  of 
the  winter  evenings ;  for  it  is  but  dull  business  for  a 
lonesome  elderly  man,  like  me,  to  be  nodding,  by  the 
hour  together,  with  no  company  but  his  air-tight  stove. 
Summer  or  winter,  there 's  a  great  deal  to  be  said  in 
favor  of  my  farm  !  And,  take  it  in  the  autumn,  what 
can  be  pleasanter  than  to  spend  a  whole  day  011  the 
sunny  side  of  a  barn  or  a  wood-pile,  chatting  with 
somebody  as  old  as  one's  self ;  or,  perhaps,  idling 
away  the  time  with  a  natural-born  simpleton,  who 
knows  how  to  be  idle,  because  even  our  busy  Yankees 
never  have  found  out  how  to  put  him  to  any  use? 
Upon  my  word,  Miss  Hepzibah,  I  doubt  whether  I  've 
ever  been  so  comfortable  as  I  mean  to  be  at  my  farm, 
which  most  folks  call  the  workhouse.  But  you,  — 
you  're  a  young  woman  yet,  —  you  never  need  go 
there!  Something  still  better  will  turn  up  for  you. 
I  'm  sure  of  it !  " 

Hepzibah  fancied  that  there  was  something  peculiar 
in  her  venerable  friend's  look  and  tone  ;  insomuch, 
that  she  gazed  into  his  face  with  considerable  earnest- 
ness, endeavoring  to  discover  what  secret  meaning,  if 
any,  might  be  lurking  there.  Individuals  whose  a£° 
fairs  have  reached  an  utterly  desperate  crisis  almost 
invariably  keep  themselves  alive  with  hopes,  so  much 
the  more  airily  magnificent  as  they  have  the  less  of 
solid  matter  within  their  grasp  whereof  to  mould  any 
judicious  and  moderate  expectation  of  good.  Thus, 
all  the  while  Hepzibah  was  perfecting  the  scheme  of 
her  little  shop,  she  had  cherished  an  unacknowledged 
idea  that  some  harlequin  trick  of  fortune  would  in- 


86      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

tervene  in  her  favor.  For  example,  an  uncle  —  who 
had  sailed  for  India  fifty  years  before,  and  never 
been  heard  of  since  —  might  yet  return,  and  adopt 
her  to  be  the  comfort  of  his  very  extreme  and  decrepit 
age,  and  adorn  her  with  pearls,  diamonds,  and  Orien* 
tal  shawls  and  turbans,  and  make  her  the  ultimate 
heiress  of  his  unreckonable  riches.  Or  the  membe* 
of  Parliament,  now  at  the  head  of  the  English  branch 
of  the  family,  —  with  which  the  elder  stock,  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  had  held  little  or  no  intercourse 
for  the  last  two  centuries, — this  eminent  gentleman 
might  invite  Hepzibah  to  quit  the  ruinous  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables,  and  come  over  to  dwell  with  her 
kindred  at  Pyncheon  Hall.  But,  for  reasons  the  most 
imperative,  she  could  not  yield  to  his  request.  It  was 
more  probable,  therefore,  that  the  descendants  of  a 
Pyncheon  who  had  emigrated  to  Virginia,  in  some 
past  generation,  and  became  a  great  planter  there,  — 
hearing  of  Hepzibah's  destitution,  and  impelled  by  the 
splendid  generosity  of  character  with  which  their  Vir- 
ginian mixture  must  have  enriched  "the  New  England 
blood,  —  would  send  her  a  remittance  of  a  thousand 
dollars,  with  a  hint  of  repeating  the  favor  annually. 
Or,  —  and,  surely,  anything  so  undeniably  just  could 
not  be  beyond  the  limits  of  reasonable  anticipation, 
—  the  great  claim  to  the  heritage  of  Waldo  County 
might  finally  be  decided  in  favor  of  the  Pyncheons ; 
so  that,  instead  of  keeping  a  cent-shop,  Hepzibah 
would  build  a  palace,  and  look  down  from  its  highest 
tower  on  hill,  dale,  forest,  field,  and  town,  as  her  own 
share  of  the  ancestral  territory. 

These  were  some  of  the  fantasies  which  she  had  long 
dreamed  about ;  and,  aided  by  these,  Uncle  Venner's 
casual  attempt  at  encouragement  kindled  a  strange 


A   DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  87 

festal  glory  in  the  poor,  bare,  melancholy  chambers  of 
her  brain,  as  if  that  inner  world  were  suddenly  lighted 
up  with  gas.  But  either  he  knew  nothing  of  her  cas- 
tles in  the  air  —  as  how  should  he  ?  —  or  else  her 
earnest  scowl  disturbed  his  recollection,  as  it  might 
a  more  courageous  man's.  Instead  of  pursuing  any 
weightier  topic,  Uncle  Venner  was  pleased  to  favor 
Hepzibah  with  some  sage  counsel  in  her  shop-keeping 
opacity. 

"  Give  no  credit !  "  —  these  were  some  of  his  golden 
maxims,  —  "  Never  take  paper-money  !  Look  well  to 
your  change  !  Ring  the  silver  on  the  four-pound 
weight !  Shove  back  all  English  half -pence  and  base 
copper  tokens,  such  as  are  very  plenty  about  town ! 
At  your  leisure  hours,  knit  children's  woollen  socks 
and  mittens !  Brew  your  own  yeast,  and  make  your 
own  ginger-beer ! " 

And  while  Hepzibah  was  doing  her  utmost  to  digest 
the  hard  little  pellets  of  his  already  uttered  wisdom, 
he  gave  vent  to  his  final,  and  what  he  declared  to  be 
his  all-important  advice,  as  follows :  — 

"  Put  on  a  bright  face  for  your  customers,  and  smile 
pleasantly  as  you  hand  them  what  they  ask  for !  A 
stale  article,  if  you  dip  it  in  a  good,  warm,  sunny  smile, 
will  go  off  better  than  a  fresh  one  that  you  've  scowled 
upon." 

To  this  last  apothegm  poor  Hepzibah  responded  with 
a  sigh  so  deep  and  heavy  that  it  almost  rustled  Uncle 
Venner  quite  away,  like  a  withered  leaf,  —  as  he  was, 
—  before  an  autumnal  gale.  Recovering  himself,  how- 
ever, he  bent  forward,  and,  with  a  good  deal  of  feeling 
in  his  ancient  visage,  beckoned  her  nearer  to  him. 

"  When  do  you  expect  him  home  ?  "  whispered  he. 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Hepzibah,  turning 
pale. 


88      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  Ah  ?  you  don't  love  to  talk  about  it,"  said  Uncle 
Venner.  "  Well,  well !  we  '11  say  no  more,  though 
there  's  word  of  it  all  over  town.  I  remember  him, 
Miss  Hepzibah,  before  he  could  run  alone  !  " 

During  the  remainder  of  the  day  poor  Hepzibah  ac~ 
quitted  herself  even  less  creditably,  as  a  shop-keeper, 
than  in  her  earlier  efforts.  She  appeared  to  be  walk- 
ing in  a  dream  ;  or,  more  truly,  the  vivid  life  and  real 
ity  assumed  by  her  emotions  made  all  outward  occur- 
rences unsubstantial,  like  the  teasing  phantasms  of  a 
half-conscious  slumber.  She  still  responded,  mechan- 
ically, to  the  frequent  summons  of  the  shop-bell,  and, 
at  the  demand  of  her  customers,  went  prying  with 
vague  eyes  about  the  shop,  proffering  them  one  article 
after  another,  and  thrusting  aside  —  perversely,  as 
most  of  them  supposed  —  the  identical  thing  they 
asked  for.  There  is  sad  confusion,  indeed,  when  the 
spirit  thus  flits  away  into  the  past,  or  into  the  more 
awful  future,  or,  in  any  manner,  steps  across  the  space- 
less boundary  betwixt  its  own  region  and  the  actual 
world  ;  where  the  body  remains  to  guide  itself  as  best 
it  may,  with  little  more  than  the  mechanism  of  animal 
life.  It  is  like  death,  without  death's  quiet  privilege, 
—  its  freedom  from  mortal  care.  Worst  of  all,  when 
the  actual  duties  are  comprised  in  such  petty  details 
as  now  vexed  the  brooding  soul  of  the  old  gentle- 
woman. As  the  animosity  of  fate  would  have  it,  there 
was  a  great  influx  of  custom  in  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon. Hepzibah  blundered  to  and  fro  about  her 
small  place  of  business,  committing  the  most  unheard- 
of  errors  :  now  stringing  up  twelve,  and  now  seven, 
tallow-candles,  instead  of  ten  to  the  pound ;  selling 
ginger  for  Scotch  snuff,  pins  for  needles,  and  needles 
for  pins ;  misreckoning  her  change,  sometimes  to  the 


A   DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  89 

public  detriment,  and  much  oftener  to  her  own ;  and 
thus  she  went  on,  doing  her  utmost  to  bring  chaos  back 
again,  until,  at  the  close  of  the  day's  labor,  to  her  in- 
explicable astonishment,  she  found  the  money-drawer 
almost  destitute  of  coin.  After  all  her  painful  traffic, 
the  whole  proceeds  were  perhaps  half  a  dozen  coppers, 
and  a  questionable  ninepence  which  ultimately  proved 
to  be  copper  likewise. 

At  this  price,  or  at  whatever  price,  she  rejoiced  that 
the  day  had  reached  its  end.  Never  before  had  she 
had  such  a  sense  of  the  intolerable  length  of  time  that 
creeps  between  dawn  and  sunset,  and  of  the  miserable 
irksomeness  of  having  aught  to  do,  and  of  the  better 
wisdom  that  it  would  be  to  lie  down  at  once,  in  sullen 
resignation,  and  let  life,  and  its  toils  and  vexations, 
trample  over  one's  prostrate  body  as  they  may  !  Hep- 
zibah's  final  operation  was  with  the  little  devourer  of 
Jim  Crow  and  the  elephant,  who  now  proposed  to  eat 
a  camel.  In  her  bewilderment,  she  offered  him  first 
a  wooden  dragoon,  and  next  a  handful  of  marbles ; 
neither  of  which  being  adapted  to  his  else  omnivorous 
appetite,  she  hastily  held  out  her  whole  remaining 
stock  of  natural  history  in  gingerbread,  and  huddled 
the  small  customer  out  of  the  shop.  She  then  muffled 
the  bell  in  an  unfinished  stocking,  and  put  up  the 
oaken  bar  across  the  door. 

During  the  latter  process,  an  omnibus  came  to  a 
stand-still  under  the  branches  of  the  elm-tree.  Hep- 
zibah's  heart  was  in  her  mouth.  Remote  and  dusky, 
and  with  no  sunshine  on  all  the  intervening  space,  was 
that  region  of  the  Past  whence  her  only  guest  might 
be  expected  to  arrive  !  Was  she  to  meet  him  now  ? 

Somebody,  at  all  events,  was  passing  from  the 
farthest  interior  of  the  omnibus  towards  its  entrance. 


90      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

A  gentleman  alighted ;  but  it  was  only  to  offer  his 
hand  to  a  young  girl  whose  slender  figure,  nowise 
needing  such  assistance,  now  lightly  descended  the 
steps,  and  made  an  airy  little  jump  from  the  final  one 
to  the  sidewalk.  She  rewarded  her  cavalier  with  a 
smile,  the  cheery  glow  of  which  was  seen  reflected  on 
his  own  face  as  he  reentered  the  vehicle.  The  girl 
then  turned  towards  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables, 
to  the  door  of  which,  meanwhile,  —  not  the  shop-door, 
but  the  antique  portal,  —  the  omnibus-man  had  car- 
ried a  light  trunk  and  a  bandbox.  First  giving  a 
sharp  rap  of  the  old  iron  knocker,  he  left  his  pas- 
senger and  her  luggage  at  the  door-step,  and  departed. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  "  thought  Hepzibah,  who  had 
been  screwing  her  visual  organs  into  the  acutest  focus 
of  which  they  were  capable.  "The  girl  must  have 
mistaken  the  house  !  " 

She  stole  softly  into  the  hall,  and,  herself  invisible, 
gazed  through  the  dusty  side-lights  of  the  portal  at 
the  young,  blooming,  and  very  cheerful  face,  which 
presented  itself  for  admittance  into  the  gloomy  old 
mansion.  It  was  a  face  to  which  almost  any  door 
would  have  opened  of  its  own  accord. 

The  young  girl,  so  fresh,  so  unconventional,  and  yet 
so  orderly  and  obedient  to  common  rules,  as  you  at 
once  recognized  her  to  be,  was  widely  in  contrast,  at 
that  moment,  with  everything  about  her.  The  sordid 
and  ugly  luxuriance  of  gigantic  weeds  that  grew  in  the 
angle  of  the  house,  and  the  heavy  projection  that  over- 
shadowed her,  and  the  time-worn  framework  of  the 
door,  —  none  of  these  things  belonged  to  her  sphere. 
But,  even  as  a  ray  of  sunshine,  fall  into  what  dismal 
place  it  may,  instantaneously  creates  for  itself  a  pro- 
priety in  being  there,  so  did  it  seem  altogether  fit  that 


A  DAY  BEHIND   THE   COUNTER.  91 

the  girl  should  be  standing  at  the  threshold.  It  was 
no  less  evidently  proper  that  the  door  should  swing 
open  to  admit  her.  The  maiden  lady,  herself,  sternly 
inhospitable  in  her  first  purposes,  soon  began  to  feel 
that  the  door  ought  to  be  shoved  back,  and  the  rusty 
key  be  turned  in  the  reluctant  lock. 

"  Can  it  be  Phcebe  ?  "  questioned  she  within  herself. 
G<  It  must  be  little  Phoebe ;  for  it  can  be  nobody  else, 
—  and  there  is  a  look  of  her  father  about  her,  too ! 
But  what  does  she  want  here  ?  And  how  like  a  coun- 
try cousin,  to  come  down  upon  a  poor  body  in  this 
way,  without  so  much  as  a  day's  notice,  or  asking 
whether  she  would  be  welcome !  Well ;  she  must 
have  a  night's  lodging,  I  suppose  ;  and  to-morrow  the 
child  shall  go  back  to  her  mother !  " 

Phoebe,  it  must  be  understood,  was  that  one  little 
offshoot  of  the  Pyncheon  race  to  whom  we  have  al- 
ready referred,  as  a  native  of  a  rural  part  of  New 
England,  where  the  old  fashions  and  feelings  of  rela- 
tionship are  still  partially  kept  up.  In  her  own  circle, 
it  was  regarded  as  by  no  means  improper  for  kinsfolk 
to  visit  one  another  without  invitation,  or  preliminary 
and  ceremonious  warning.  Yet,  in  consideration  of 
Miss  Hepzibah's  recluse  way  of  life,  a  letter  had  actu- 
ally been  written  and  despatched,  conveying  informa- 
tion of  Phoebe's  projected  visit.  This  epistle,  for  three. 
or  four  days  past,  had  been  in  the  pocket  of  the  penny, 
postman,  who,  happening  to  have  no  other  business  in 
Pyncheon  Street,  had  not  yet  made  it  convenient  to 
call  at  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 

"  No !  —  she  can  stay  only  one  night,"  said  Hepzi- 
bah,  unbolting  the  door.  "If  Clifford  were  to  find 
her  here,  it  might  disturb  him  1 " 


V. 

MAY  AND  NOVEMBER. 

PH<EBE  PTNCHEON  slept,  on  the  night  of  her  ar- 
rival, in  a  chamber  that  looked  down  on  the  garden  of 
the  old  house.  It  fronted  towards  the  east,  so  that  at 
a  very  seasonable  hour  a  glow  of  crimson  light  came 
flooding  through  the  window,  and  bathed  the  dingy 
ceiling  and  paper-hangings  in  its  own  hue.  There 
were  curtains  to  Phoebe's  bed ;  a  dark,  antique  can- 
opy, and  ponderous  festoons  of  a  stuff  which  had  been 
rich,  and  even  magnificent,  in  its  time ;  but  which  now 
brooded  over  the  girl  like  a  cloud,  making  a  night  in 
that  one  corner,  while  elsewhere  it  was  beginning  to 
be  day.  The  morning  light,  however,  soon  stole  into 
the  aperture  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  betwixt  those  faded 
curtains.  Finding  the  new  guest  there,  —  with  a  bloom 
on  her  cheeks  like  the  morning's  own,  and  a  gentle 
stir  of  departing  slumber  in  her  limbs,  as  when  an 
early  breeze  moves  the  foliage,  —  the  dawn  kissed  her 
brow.  It  was  the  caress  which  a  dewy  maiden  —  such 
as  the  Dawn  is,  immortally  —  gives  to  her  sleeping 
sister,  partly  from  the  impulse  of  irresistible  fond- 
ness, and  partly  as  a  pretty  hint  that  it  is  time  now 
to  unclose  her  eyes. 

At  the  touch  of  those  lips  of  light,  Phoebe  quietly 
awoke,  and,  for  a  moment,  did  not  recognize  where 
she  was,  nor  how  those  heavy  curtains  chanced  to  be 
festooned  around  her.  Nothing,  indeed,  was  abso- 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  93 

lately  plain  to  her,  except  that  it  was  now  early  morn- 
ing, and  that,  whatever  might  happen  next,  it  was 
proper,  first  of  all,  to  get  up  and  say  her  prayers.  She 
was  the  more  inclined  to  devotion  from  the  grim  as- 
pect of  the  chamber  and  its  furniture,  especially  the 
tall,  stiff  chairs ;  one  of  which  stood  close  by  her  bed- 
aide,  and  looked  as  if  some  old-fashioned  personage 
had  been  sitting  there  all  night,  and  had  vanished  only 
just  in  season  to  escape  discovery. 

When  Pho3be  was  quite  dressed,  she  peeped  out  of 
the  window,  and  saw  a  rose-bush  in  the  garden.  Be- 
ing a  very  tall  one,  and  of  luxuriant  growth,  it  had 
been  propped  up  against  the  side  of  the  house,  and 
was  literally  covered  with  a  rare  and  very  beautiful 
species  of  white  rose.  A  large  portion  of  them,  as  the 
girl  afterwards  discovered,  had  blight  or  mildew  at 
their  hearts  ;  but,  viewed  at  a  fair  distance,  the  whole 
rose-bush  looked  as  if  it  had  been  brought  from  Eden 
that  very  summer,  together  with  the  mould  in  which  it 
grew.  The  truth  was,  nevertheless,  that  it  had  been 
planted  by  Alice  Pyncheon,  —  she  was  Pho3be's  great- 
great-grand-aunt,  —  in  soil  which,  reckoning  only  its 
cultivation  as  a  garden-plat,  was  now  unctuous  with 
nearly  two  hundred  years  of  vegetable  decay.  Grow- 
ing as  they  did,  however,  out  of  the  old  earth,  the 
flowers  still  sent  a  fresh  and  sweet  incense  up  to  their 
Creator ;  nor  could  it  have  been  the  less  pure  and  ac- 
ceptable, because  Phoebe's  young  breath  mingled  with 
it,  as  the  fragrance  floated  past  the  window.  Hasten- 
ing  down  the  creaking  and  carpetless  staircase,  she 
found  her  way  into  the  garden,  gathered  some  of  the 
most  perfect  of  the  roses,  and  brought  them  to  her 
chamber. 

Little  Phoebe  was  one  of  those  persons  who  possess, 


94      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

as  their  exclusive  patrimony,  the  gift  of  practical  ar- 
rangement. It  is  a  kind  of  natural  magic  that  enables 
these  favored  ones  to  bring  out  the  hidden  capabilities 
of  things  around  them ;  and  particularly  to  give  a 
look  of  comfort  and  habitableness  to  any  place  which, 
for  however  brief  a  period,  may  happen  to  be  theii 
home.  A  wild  hut  of  underbrush,  tossed  together  by 
wayfarers  through  the  primitive  forest,  would  acquire 
the  home  aspect  by  one  night's  lodging  of  such  a 
woman,  and  would  retain  it  long  after  her  quiet  fig- 
ure had  disappeared  into  the  surrounding  shade.  No 
less  a  portion  of  such  homely  witchcraft  was  requisite 
to  reclaim,  as  it  were,  Phosbe's  waste,  cheerless,  and 
dusky  chamber,  which  had  been  untenanted  so  long  — 
except  by  spiders,  and  mice,  and  rats,  and  ghosts  — 
that  it  was  all  overgrown  with  the  desolation  which 
watches  to  obliterate  every  trace  of  man's  happier 
hours.  What  was  precisely  Phoebe's  process  we  find 
it  impossible  to  say.  She  appeared  to  have  no  pre- 
liminary design,  but  gave  a  touch  here  and  another 
there ;  brought  some  articles  of  furniture  to  light  and 
dragged  others  into  the  shadow ;  looped  up  or  let 
down  a  window-curtain  ;  and,  in  the  course  of  half  an 
hour,  had  fully  succeeded  in  throwing  a  kindly  and 
hospitable  smile  over  the  apartment.  No  longer  ago 
than  the  night  before,  it  had  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  the  old  maid's  heart ;  for  there  was  neither 
sunshine  nor  household  fire  in  one  nor  the  other,  and, 
save  for  ghosts  and  ghostly  reminiscences,  not  a  guest, 
for  many  years  gone  by,  had  entered  the  heart  or  the 
chamber. 

There  was  still  another  peculiarity  of  this  inscrut 
able  charm.  The  bedchamber,  no  doubt,  was  a  cham- 
ber of  very  great  and  varied  experience,  as  a  scene  ol 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  95 

human  life :  the  joy  of  bridal  nights  had  throbbed  it- 
self away  here ;  new  immortals  had  first  drawn  earthly 
breath  here  ;  and  here  old  people  had  died.  But  — 
whether  it  were  the  white  roses,  or  whatever  the  sub- 
tile influence  might  be  —  a  person  of  delicate  instinct 
would  have  known  at  once  that  it  was  now  a  maiden's 
bedchamber,  and  had  been  purified  of  all  former  evi] 
and  sorrow  by  her  sweet  breath  and  happy  thoughts, 
Her  dreams  of  the  past  night,  being  such  cheerful 
ones,  had  exorcised  the  gloom,  and  now  haunted  the 
chamber  in  its  stead. 

After  arranging  matters  to  her  satisfaction,  Phosbe 
emerged  from  her  chamber,  with  a  purpose  to  descend 
again  into  the  garden.  Besides  the  rose-bush,  she  had 
observed  several  other  species  of  flowers  growing  there 
in  a  wilderness  of  neglect,  and  obstructing  one  an- 
other's development  (as  is  often  the  paraJel  case  in 
human  society)  by  their  uneducated  entanglement 
and  confusion.  At  the  head  of  the  stairs,  however, 
she  met  Hepzibah,  who,  it  being  still  early,  invited  her 
into  a  room  which  she  would  probably  have  called  her 
boudoir,  had  her  education  embraced  any  such  French 
phrase.  It  was  strewn  about  with  a  few  old  books, 
and  a  work-basket,  and  a  dusty  writing-desk  ;  and  had, 
on  one  side,  a  large,  black  article  of  furniture,  of  very 
strange  appearance,  which  the  old  gentlewoman  told 
Phoebe  was  a  harpsichord.  It  looked  more  like  a 
coffin  than  anything  else  ;  and,  indeed,  —  not  having 
been  played  upon,  or  opened,  for  years,  —  there  must 
have  been  a  vast  deal  of  dead  music  in  it,  stifled  for 
want  of  air.  Human  finger  was  hardly  known  to  have 
touched  its  chords  since  the  days  of  Alice  Pyncheon, 
who  had  learned  the  sweet  accomplishment  of  melody 
in  Europe. 


06      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Hepzibah  bade  her  young  guest  sit  down,  and,  !ier» 
self  taking  a  chair  near  by,  looked  as  earnestly  a* 
Phoebe's  trim  little  figure  as  if  she  expected  to  se«> 
right  into  its  springs  and  motive  secrets. 

"  Cousin  Pho3be,"  said  she,  at  last,  "  I  really  can't 
Bee  my  way  clear  to  keep  you  with  me." 

These  words,  however,  had  not  the  inhospitable 
bluntness  with  which  they  may  strike  the  reader ;  for 
the  two  relatives,  in  a  talk  before  bedtime,  had  arrived 
at  a  certain  degree  of  mutual  understanding.  Hepzi- 
bah knew  enough  to  enable  her  to  appreciate  the  cir- 
cumstances (resulting  from  the  second  marriage  of  the 
girl's  mother)  which  made  it  desirable  for  Phoebe  to 
establish  herself  in  another  home.  Nor  did  she  misin- 
terpret Phoebe's  character,  and  the  genial  activity  per- 
vading it,  —  one  of  the  most  valuable  traits  of  the 
true  New  England  woman,  —  which  had  impelled  her 
forth,  as  might  be  said,  to  seek  her  fortune,  but  with 
a  self-respecting  purpose  to  confer  as  much  benefit  as 
she  could  anywise  receive.  As  one  of  her  nearest 
kindred,  she  had  naturally  betaken  herself  to  Hepzi- 
bah, with  no  idea  of  forcing  herself  on  her  cousin's 
protection,  but  only  for  a  visit  of  a  week  or  two,  which 
might  be  indefinitely  extended,  should  it  prove  for  the 
happiness  of  both. 

To  Hepzibah's  blunt  observation,  therefore,  Phoebe 
replied,  as  frankly,  and  more  cheerfully. 

"  Dear  cousin,  I  cannot  tell  how  it  will  be,"  said 
she.  "  But  I  really  think  we  may  suit  one  another 
jnuch  better  than  you  suppose." 

"  You  are  a  nice  girl,  —  I  see  it  plainly,"  continued 
Hepzibah ;  "  and  it  is  not  any  question  as  to  that 
point  which  makes  me  hesitate.  But,  Phoebe,  this 
house  of  mine  is  but  a  melancholy  place  for  a  young 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  97 

person  to  be  in.  It  lets  in  the  wind  and  rain,  and  the 
snow,  too,  in  the  garret  and  upper  chambers,  in  winter- 
time, but  it  never  lets  in  the  sunshine !  And  as  for 
myself,  you  see  what  I  am,  —  a  dismal  and  lonesome 
old  woman  (for  I  begin  to  call  myself  old,  Phoebe), 
whose  temper,  I  am  afraid,  is  none  of  the  best,  and 
whose  spirits  are  as  bad  as  can  be.  I  cannot  make 
your  life  pleasant,  Cousin  Phoebe,  neither  can  I  so 
much  as  give  you  bread  to  eat." 

"  You  will  find  me  a  cheerful  little  body,"  answered 
Phcebe,  smiling,  and  yet  with  a  kind  of  gentle  dig- 
nity ;  "  and  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread.  You  know  I 
have  not  been  brought  up  a  Pyncheon.  A  girl  learns 
many  things  in  a  New  England  village." 

"  Ah !  Phffibe,"  said  Hepzibah,  sighing,  "  your 
knowledge  would  do  but  little  for  you  here !  And  then 
it  is  a  wretched  thought  that  you  should  fling  away 
your  young  days  in  a  place  like  this.  Those  cheeks 
would  not  be  so  rosy  after  a  month  or  two.  Look  at 
my  face  !  "  —  and,  indeed,  the  contrast  was  very  strik- 
ing, —  "  you  see  how  pale  I  am  !  It  is  my  idea  that 
the  dust  and  continual  decay  of  these  old  houses  are 
unwholesome  for  the  lungs." 

"  There  is  the  garden,  —  the  flowers  to  be  taken  care 
of,"  observed  Phoebe.  "  I  should  keep  myself  healthy 
with  exercise  in  the  open  air." 

"And,  after  all,  child,"  exclaimed  Hepzibah,  sud- 
denly rising,  as  if  to  dismiss  the  subject,  "  it  is  not 
for  me  to  say  who  shall  be  a  guest  or  inhabitant  of 
the  old  Pyncheon  House.  Its  master  is  coming." 

"  Do  you  mean  Judge  Pyncheon  ?  "  asked  Phrebe, 
in  surprise. 

"Judge  Pyncheon!"  answered  her  cousin,  angrily. 
*He  will  hardly  cross  the  threshold  while  I  live  !  N<* 

YOL.  ra.  7 


08     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

no  1  But,  Phoebe,  you  shall  see  the  face  of  him  I  speab 
of." 

She  went  in  quest  of  the  miniature  already  de- 
scribed, and  returned  with  it  in  her  hand.  Giving  it 
to  Phoebe,  she  watched  her  features  narrowly,  and 
with  a  certain  jealousy  as  to  the  mode  in  which  the 
girl  would  show  herself  affected  by  the  picture. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  face? "  asked  Hepzibah. 

"  It  is  handsome  !  —  it  is  very  beautiful  !  "  said 
Phoebe,  admiringly.  "  It  is  as  sweet  a  face  as  a  man's 
can  be,  or  ought  to  be.  It  has  something  of  a  child's 
expression,  —  and  yet  not  childish,  —  only  one  feels 
so  very  kindly  towards  him  !  He  ought  never  to  suf- 
fer anything.  One  would  bear  much  for  the  sake  of 
sparing  him  toil  or  sorrow.  Who  is  it,  Cousin  Hep- 
zibah?" 

"  Did  you  never  hear,"  whispered  her  cousin,  bend- 
ing towards  her,  "of  Clifford  Pyncheon?" 

"  Never !  I  thought  there  were  no  Pyncheons  left, 
except  yourself  and  our  cousin  Jaffrey,"  answered 
Phoebe.  "And  yet  I  seem  to  have  heard  the  name 
of  Clifford  Pyncheon.  Yes ! — from  my  father  or  my 
mother  ;  but  has  he  not  been  a  long  while  dead  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,  child,  perhaps  he  has !  "  said  Hepzibah, 
with  a  sad,  hollow  laugh  ;  "  but,  in  old  houses  like  this, 
you  know,  dead  people  are  very  apt  to  come  back 
again!  We  shall  see.  And,  Cousin  Phoebe,  since, 
after  all  that  I  have  said,  your  courage  does  not  fai] 
you,  we  will  not  part  so  soon.  You  are  welcome,  my 
child,  for  the  present,  to  such  a  home  as  your  kins- 
woman  can  offer  you." 

With  this  measured,  but  not  exactly  cold  assurance 
of  a  hospitable  purpose,  Hepzibah  kissed  her  cheek. 

They  now  went  below  stairs,  where  Phoebe — not  so 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  99 

much  assuming  the  office  as  attracting  it  to  herself,  by 
the  magnetism  of  innate  fitness  —  took  the  most  ac- 
tive part  in  preparing  breakfast.  The  mistress  of  the 
house,  meanwhile,  as  is  usual  with  persons  of  her 
stiff  and  unmalleable  cast,  stood  mostly  aside ;  willing 
to  lend  her  aid,  yet  conscious  that  her  natural  inapti* 
tude  would  be  likely  to  impede  the  business  in  hand. 
Phoabe,  and  the  fire  that  boiled  the  teakettle,  were 
equally  bright,  cheerful,  and  efficient,  in  their  respect- 
ive offices.  Hepzibah  gazed  forth  from  her  habitual 
sluggishness,  the  necessary  result  of  long  solitude,  as 
from  another  sphere.  She,  could  not  help  being  in- 
terested, however,  and  even  amused,  at  the  readiness 
with  which  her  new  inmate  adapted  herself  to  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  brought  the  house,  moreover,  and  all 
its  rusty  old  appliances,  into  a  suitableness  for  her 
purposes.  Whatever  she  did,  too,  was  done  without 
conscious  effort,  and  with  frequent  outbreaks  of  song, 
which  were  exceedingly  pleasant  to  the  ear.  This 
natural  tunefulness  made  Phrebe  seem  like  a  bird  in  a 
shadowy  tree ;  or  conveyed  the  idea  that  the  stream  of 
life  warbled  through  her  heart  as  a  brook  sometimes 
warbles  through  a  pleasant  little  dell.  It  betokened 
the  cheeriness  of  an  active  temperament,  finding  joy 
in  its  activity,  and,  therefore,  rendering  it  beautiful ; 
it  was  a  New  England  trait,  —  the  stern  old  stuff  of 
Puritanism  with  a  gold  thread  in  the  web. 

Hepzibah  brought  out  some  old  silver  spoons  with 
the  family  crest  upon  them,  and  a  china  tea-set  painted 
over  with  grotesque  figures  of  man,  bird,  and  beast, 
in  as  grotesque  a  landscape.  These  pictured  people 
were  odd  humorists,  in  a  world  of  their  own,  —  a 
world  of  vivid  brilliancy,  so  far  as  color  went,  and 
Still  unfaded,  although  the  teapot  and  small  cups  were 
as  ancient  as  the  custom  itself  of  tea-drinking. 


100      THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

"  Your  great-great-great-great-grandmother  had  these 
cups,  when  she  was  married,"  said  Hepzibah  to  Phoebe. 
"  She  was  a  Davenport,  of  a  good  family.  They  were 
almost  the  first  teacups  ever  seen  in  the  colony ;  and  if 
one  of  them  were  to  be  broken,  my  heart  would  break 
with  it.  But  it  is  nonsense  to  speak  so  about  a  brittle 
teacup,  when  I  remember  what  my  heart  has  gone 
through  without  breaking." 

The  cups  —  not  having  been  used,  perhaps,  since 
Hepzibah's  youth  —  had  contracted  no  small  burden 
of  dust,  which  Phoebe  washed  away  with  so  much  care 
and  delicacy  as  to  satisfy,  even  the  proprietor  of  this 
invaluable  china. 

"  What  a  nice  little  housewife  you  are  !  "  exclaimed 
the  latter,  smiling,  and,  at  the  same  time,  frowning  so 
prodigiously  that  the  smile  was  sunshine  under  a  thun- 
der-cloud. "  Do  you  do  other  things  as  well  ?  Are 
you  as  good  at  your  book  as  you  are  at  washing  tea- 
cups?" 

"  Not  quite,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Phrebe,  laughing  at 
the  form  of  Hepzibah's  question.  "  But  I  was  school- 
mistress for  the  little  children  in  our  district  last  sum- 
mer, and  might  have  been  so  still." 

"  Ah !  't  is  all  very  well !  "  observed  the  maiden 
lady,  drawing  herself  up.  "  But  these  things  must 
have  come  to  you  with  your  mother's  blood.  I  never 
knew  a  Pyncheon  that  had  any  turn  for  them." 

It  is  very  queer,  but  not  the  less  true,  that  people 
are  generally  quite  as  vain,  or  even  more  so,  of  their 
deficiencies  than  of  their  available  gifts ;  as  was  Hep- 
zibah of  this  native  inapplicability,  so  to  speak,  of  the 
Pyncheons  to  any  useful  purpose.  She  regarded  it  as 
an  hereditary  trait ;  and  so,  perhaps,  it  was,  but,  un- 
fortunately, a  morbid  one,  such  as  is  often  generated 


MA  Y  AND  NOVEMBER.  101 

in  families  that  remain  long  above  the  surface  of  so* 
ciety. 

Before  they  left  the  breakfast-table,  the  shop-bell 
rang  sharply,  and  Hepzibah  set  down  the  remnart  of 
her  final  cup  of  tea,  with  a  look  of  sallow  despair  that 
was  truly  piteous  to  behold.  In  cases  of  distasteful 
occupation,  the  second  day  is  generally  worse  than  the 
first ;  we  return  to  the  rack  with  all  the  soreness  of 
the  preceding  torture  in  our  limbs.  At  all  events, 
Hepzibah  had  fully  satisfied  herself  of  the  in:  possibil- 
ity of  ever  becoming  wonted  to  this  peevishly  obstrep- 
erous little  bell.  Ring  as  often  as  it  might,  the 
sound  always  smote  upon  her  nervous  system  rudely 
and  suddenly.  And  especially  now,  while,  with  her 
crested  teaspoons  and  antique  china,  she  was  flattering 
herself  with  ideas  of  gentility,  she  felt  an  unspeakable 
disinclination  to  confront  a  customer. 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  dear  cousin ! "  cried  Phoebe, 
starting  lightly  up.  "  I  am  shop-keeper  to-day." 

"  You,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Hepzibah.  "  What  can 
a  little  country-girl  know  of  such  matters?  " 

"  Oh,  I  have  done  all  the  shopping  for  the  family 
at  our  village  store,"  said  Phoebe.  "  And  I  have  had 
a  table  at  a  fancy  fair,  and  made  better  sales  than 
anybody.  These  things  are  not  to  be  learnt :  they 
depend  upon  a  knack  that  comes,  T  suppose,"  added 
she,  smiling,  "  with  one's  mother's  blood.  You  shall 
see  that  I  am  as  nice  a  little  saleswoman  as  I  am  s 
housewife !  " 

The  old  gentlewoman  stole  behind  Phoebe,  and  peeped 
from  the  passage-way  into  the  shop,  to  note  how  she 
would  manage  her  undertaking.  It  was  a  case  of 
some  intricacy.  A  very  ancient  woman,  in  a  white 
short  gown  and  a  green  petticoat,  with  a  string  of  gold 


102     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

beads  about  her  neck,  and  what  looked  like  a  nightcap 
on  her  head,  had  brought  a  quantity  of  yarn  to  barter 
for  the  commodities  of  the  shop.  She  was  probably 
the  very  last  person  in  town  who  still  kept  the  time- 
honored  spinning-wheel  in  constant  revolution.  It 
was  worth  while  to  hear  the  croaking  and  hollow  tones 
of  the  old  lady,  and  the  pleasant  voice  of  Phoebe, 
mingling  in  one  twisted  thread  of  talk ;  and  still  bet- 
ter  to  contrast  their  figures,  —  so  light  and  bloomy, 
—  so  decrepit  and  dusky,  —  with  only  the  counter 
betwixt  them,  in  one  sense,'  but  more  than  threescore 
years,  in  another.  As  for  the  bargain,  it  was  wrinkled 
slyness  and  craft  pitted  against  native  truth  and  sa- 
gacity. 

"Was  not  that  well  done?"  asked  Phoebe,  laugh- 
ing, when  the  customer  was  gone. 

"  Nicely  done,  indeed,  child !  "  answered  Hepzibah. 
"  I  could  not  have  gone  through  with  it  nearly  so  well. 
As  you  say,  it  must  be  a  knack  that  belongs  to  you  on 
the  mother's  side." 

It  is  a  very  genuine  admiration,  that  with  which 
persons  too  shy  or  too  awkward  to  take  a  due  part  in 
the  bustling  world  regard  the  real  actors  in  life's  stir- 
ring scenes ;  so  genuine,  in  fact,  that  the  former  are 
usually  fain  to  make  it  palatable  to  their  self-love,  by 
assuming  that  these  active  and  forcible  qualities  are 
incompatible  with  others,  which  they  choose  to  deem 
higher  and  more  important.  Thus,  Hepzibah  was  well 
content  to  acknowledge  Phosbe's  vastly  superior  gifts 
as  a  shop-keeper ;  she  listened,  with  compliant  ear,  to 
her  suggestion  of  various  methods  whereby  the  influx 
of  trade  might  be  increased,  and  rendered  profitable, 
without  a  hazardous  outlay  of  capital.  She  consented 
that  the  village  maiden  should  manufacture  yeast,  both 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  106 

liquid  and  in  cakes  ;  and  should  brew  a  certain  kind 
of  beer,  uectareous  to  the  palate,  and  of  rare  stomachic 
virtues;  and,  moreover,  should  bake  and  exhibit  for 
sale  some  little  spice-cakes,  which  whosoever  tasted 
wo  old  longingly  desire  to  taste  again.  All  such  proofs 
of  a  ready  mind  and  skilful  handiwork  were  highly 
acceptable  to  the  aristocratic  hucksteress,  so  long  as 
she  could  murmur  to  herself  with  a  grim  smile,  and  a 
half-natural  sigh,  and  a  sentiment  of  mixed  wonder, 
pity,  and  growing  affection,  — 

"  What  a  nice  little  body  she  is !  If  she  could  only 
be  a  lady,  too  !  —  but  that 's  impossible  !  Phoebe  is 
no  Pyncheon.  She  takes  everything  from  her  mother." 

As  to  Phoebe's  not  being  a  lady,  or  whether  she 
were  a  lady  or  no,  it  was  a  point,  perhaps,  difficult  to 
decide,  but  which  could  hardly  have  come  up  for  judg- 
ment at  all  in  any  fair  and  healthy  mind.  Out  of  New 
England,  it  would  be  impossible  to  meet  with  a  person 
combining  so  many  lady-like  attributes  with  so  many 
others  that  form  no  necessary  (if  compatible)  part  of 
the  character.  She  shocked  no  canon  of  taste;  she 
was  admirably  in  keeping  with  herself,  and  never 
jarred  against  surrounding  circumstances.  Her  figure, 
to  be  sure,  —  so  small  as  to  be  almost  childlike,  and 
so  elastic  that  motion  seemed  as  easy  or  easier  to  it 
than  rest,  —  would  hardly  have  suited  one's  idea  of  a 
countess.  Neither  did  her  face  —  with  the  brown 
ringlets  on  either  side,  and  the  slightly  piquant  nose, 
and  the  wholesome  bloom,  and  the  clear  shade  of  tan, 
and  the  half  a  dozen  freckles,  friendly  remembrancers 
of  the  April  sun  and  breeze  —  precisely  give  us  a 
right  to  call  her  beautiful.  But  there  was  both  lustre 
and  depth  in  her  eyes.  She  was  very  pretty ;  as  grace- 
ful as  a  bird,  and  graceful  much  in  the  same  way ;  a* 


104   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN"  GABLES. 

pleasant  about  the  house  as  a  gleam  of  sunshine  fall- 
ing on  the  floor  through  a  shadow  of  twinkling  leaves, 
or  as  a  ray  of  firelight  that  dances  on  the  wall  while 
evening  is  drawing  nigh.  Instead  of  discussing  her 
claim  to  rank  among  ladies,  it  would  be  preferable  to 
regard  Phoebe  as  the  example  of  feminine  grace  and 
availability  combined,  in  a  state  of  society,  if  there 
were  any  such,  where  ladies  did  not  exist.  There  it 
should  be  woman's  office  to  move  in  the  midst  of  prac- 
tical affairs,  and  to  gild  them  all,  the  very  homeliest, 
• — were  it  even  the  scouring  of  pots  and  kettles,— 
with  an  atmosphere  of  loveliness  and  joy. 

Such  was  the  sphere  of  Phosbe.  To  find  the  born 
and  educated  lady,  on  the  other  hand,  we  need  look 
no  farther  than  Hepzibah,  our  forlorn  old  maid,  in  her 
rustling  and  rusty  silks,  with  her  deeply  cherished  and 
ridiculous  consciousness  of  long  descent,  her  shadowy 
claims  to  princely  territory,  and,  in  the  way  of  accom- 
plishment, her  recollections,  it  may  be,  of  having  for- 
merly thrummed  on  a  harpsichord,  and  walked  a  min- 
uet, and  worked  an  antique  tapestry-stitch  on  her  sam- 
pler. It  was  a  fair  parallel  between  new  Plebeianism 
and  old  Gentility. 

It  really  seemed  as  if  the  battered  visage  of  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  black  and  heavy-browed 
as  it  still  certainly  looked,  must  have  shown  a  kind  of 
cheerfulness  glimmering  through  its  dusky  windows 
as  Phoebe  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  interior.  Other- 
wise, it  is  impossible  to  explain  how  the  people  of  the 
neighborhood  so  soon  became  aware  of  the  girl's  pres- 
ence. There  was  a  great  run  of  custom,  setting  stead- 
ily in,  from  about  ten  o'clock  until  towards  noon,  — 
relaxing,  somewhat,  at  dinner-time,  but  recommencing 
in  the  afternoon,  and,  finally,  dying  away  a  half  ao 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  105 

hour  or  so  before  the  long  day's  sunset.  One  of  the 
stanchest  patrons  was  little  Ned  Higgins,  the  devourei 
of  Jim  Crow  and  the  elephant,  who  to-day  had  signal- 
ized his  omnivorous  prowess  by  swallowing  two  drom- 
edaries and  a  locomotive.  Phoebe  laughed,  as  she 
summed  up  her  aggregate  of  sales  upon  the  slate  j 
while  Hepzibah,  first  drawing  on  a  pair  of  silk  gloveSj 
reckoned  over  the  sordid  accumulation  of  copper  coinj 
not  without  silver  intermixed,  that  had  jingled  into 
the  till. 

"  We  must  renew  our  stock,  Cousin  Hepzibah ! " 
cried  the  little  saleswoman.  "  The  gingerbread  figures 
are  all  gone,  and  so  are  those  Dutch  wooden  milk- 
maids, and  most  of  our  other  playthings.  There  has 
been  constant  inquiry  for  cheap  raisins,  and  a  great 
cry  for  whistles,  and  trumpets,  and  jew's-harps ;  and 
at  least  a  dozen  little  boys  have  asked  for  molasses- 
candy.  And  we  must  contrive  to  get  a  peck  of  russet 
apples,  late  in  the  season  as  it  is.  But,  dear  cousin, 
what  an  enormous  heap  of  copper  !  Positively  a  cop. 
per  mountain ! " 

"  Well  done  !  well  done  !  well  done  !  "  quoth  Uncle 
Venner,  who  had  taken  occasion  to  shuffle  in  and  out 
of  the  shop  several  times  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
"  Here  's  a  girl  that  will  never  end  her  days  at  my 
farm  !  Bless  my  eyes,  what  a  brisk  little  soul !  " 

"  Yes,  Phoebe  is  a  nice  girl !  "  said  Hepzibah,  with  a 
scowl  of  austere  approbation.  "  But,  Uncle  Venner, 
you  have  known  the  family  a  great  many  years.  Can 
you  tell  me  whether  there  ever  was  a  Pyncheon  whom 
she  takes  after  ?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  there  ever  was,"  answered  the  ven- 
erable man.  "  At  any  rate,  it  never  was  my  luck 
to  see  her  like  among  them,  nor,  for  that  matter,  any- 


106     THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLEb. 

where  else.  I  've  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  not 
only  in  people's  kitchens  and  back-yards,  but  at  the 
street-corners,  and  on  the  wharves,  and  in  other  places 
where  my  business  calls  me ;  and  I  'm  free  to  say, 
Miss  Hepzibah,  that  I  never  knew  a  human  creature 
do  her  work  so  much  like  one  of  God's  angels  as  this 
child  Phoebe  does  ! " 

Uncle  Venner's  eulogium,  if  it  appear  rather  toe 
high-strained  for  the  person  and  occasion,  had,  never, 
theless,  a  sense  in  which  it  was  both  subtile  and  true. 
There  was  a  spiritual  quality  in  Phoebe's  activity. 
The  life  of  the  long  and  busy  day  —  spent  in  occupa- 
tions that  might  so  easily  have  taken  a  squalid  and 
ugly  aspect  —  had  been  made  pleasant,  and  even  love- 
ly, by  the  spontaneous  grace  with  which  these  homely 
duties  seemed  to  bloom  out  of  her  character ;  so  that 
labor,  while  she  dealt  with  it,  had  the  easy  and  flexible 
charm  of  play.  Angels  do  not  toil,  but  let  their  good 
works  grow  out  of  them ;  and  so  did  Phoebe. 

The  two  relatives  — the  young  maid  and  the  old  one 
— found  time  before  nightfall,  in  the  intervals  of  trade, 
to  make  rapid  advances  towards  affection  and  confi- 
dence. A  recluse,  like  Hepzibah,  usually  displays  re- 
markable frankness,  and  at  least  temporary  affability, 
on  being  absolutely  cornered,  and  brought  to  the  point 
of  personal  intercourse ;  like  the  angel  whom  Jacob 
wrestled  with,  she  is  ready  to  bless  you  when  once 
overcome. 

The  old  gentlewoman  took  a  dreary  and  proud  satis* 
faction  in  leading  Phoebe  from  room  to  room  of  the 
bouse,  and  recounting  the  traditions  with  which,  as  we 
may  say,  the  walls  were  lugubriously  frescoed.  She 
showed  the  indentations  made  by  the  lieutenant-gov- 
ernor's sword-hilt  in  the  door-panels  of  the  apartmei** 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  107 

where  old  Colonel  Pyncheon,  a  dead  host,  had  received 
his  affrighted  visitors  with  an  awful  frown.  The  dusty 
terror  of  that  frown,  Hepzibah  observed,  was  thought 
to  be  lingering  ever  since  in  the  passage-way.  She 
bade  Phoebe  step  into  one  of  the  tall  chairs,  and  in- 
spect the  ancient  map  of  the  Pyncheon  territory  at  the 
eastward.  In  a  tract  of  land  on  which  she  laid  her 
finger,  there  existed  a  silver-mine,  the  locality  of  which 
was  precisely  pointed  out  in  some  memoranda  of  Col- 
onel Pyncheon  himself,  but  only  to  be  made  known 
when  the  family  claim  should  be  recognized  by  govern- 
ment. Thus  it  was  for  the  interest  of  all  New  Eng- 
land that  the  Pyncheons  should  have  justice  done 
them.  She  told,  too,  how  that  there  was  undoubt- 
edly an  immense  treasure  of  English  guineas  hidden 
somewhere  about  the  house,  or  in  the  cellar,  or  pos- 
sibly in  the  garden. 

"  If  you  should  happen  to  find  it,  Phoebe,"  said  Hep- 
zibah, glancing  aside  at  her  with  a  grim  yet  kindly 
smile,  "  we  will  tie  up  the  shop-bell  for  good  and  all ! " 

"  Yes,  dear  cousin,"  answered  Phoebe  ;  "  but,  in  the 
mean  time,  I  hear  somebody  ringing  it !  " 

When  the  customer  was  gone,  Hepzibah  talked 
rather  vaguely,  and  at  great  length,  about  a  certain 
Alice  Pyncheon,  who  had  been  exceedingly  beautiful 
and  accomplished  in  her  lifetime,  a  hundred  years  ago. 
The  fragrance  of  her  rich  and  delightful  character  still 
lingered  about  the  place  where  she  had  lived,  as  a 
dried  rosebud  scents  the  drawer  where  it  has  withered 
and  perished.  This  lovely  AKce  had  met  with  some 
great  and  mysterious  calamity,  and  had  grown  thin 
and  white,  and  gradually  faded  out  of  the  world.  But, 
ftven  now,  she  was  supposed  to  haunt  the  House  of  the 
;3even  Gables,  and,  a  great  many  times,  —  especially 


108     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

when  one  of  the  Pyncheons  was  to  die,  —  she  had  been 
heard  playing  sadly  and  beautifully  on  the  harpsichord. 
One  of  these  tunes,  just  as  it  had  sounded  from  her 
spiritual  touch,  had  been  written  down  by  an  amateur 
of  music ;  it  was  so  exquisitely  mournful  that  nobody, 
to  this  day,  could  bear  to  hear  it  played,  unless  when  a 
great  sorrow  had  made  them  know  the  still  profoundei 
sweetness  of  it. 

"Was  it  the  same  harpsichord  that  you  showed 
me?"  inquired  Phrebe. 

"  The  very  same,"  said  Hepzibah.  "  It  was  Alice 
Pyncheon's  harpsichord.  When  I  was  learning  music, 
my  father  would  never  let  me  open  it.  So,  as  I  could 
only  play  on  my  teacher's  instrument,  I  have  forgotten 
all  my  music  long  ago." 

Leaving  these  antique  themes,  the  old  lady  began 
to  talk  about  the  daguerreotypist,  whom,  as  he  seemed 
to  be  a  well-meaning  and  orderly  young  man,  and  in 
narrow  circumstances,  she  had  permitted  to  take  up  his 
residence  in  one  of  the  seven  gables.  But,  on  seeing 
more  of  Mr.  Holgrave,  she  hardly  knew  what  to  make 
of  him.  He  had  the  strangest  companions  imaginable ; 
men  with  long  beards,  and  dressed  in  linen  blouses, 
and  other  such  new-fangled  and  ill-fitting  garments ; 
reformers,  temperance  lecturers,  and  all  manner  of 
cross-looking  philanthropists;  community  -  men,  and 
come-outers,  as  Hepzibah  believed,  who  acknowledged 
no  law,  and  ate  no  solid  food,  but  lived  on  the  scent 
of  other  people's  cookery,  and  turned  up  their  noses 
at  the  fare.  As  for  the  daguerreotypist,  she  had  read 
a  paragraph  in  a  penny  paper,  the  other  day,  accusing 
him  of  making  a  speech  full  of  wild  and  disorganiz- 
ing matter,  at  a  meeting  of  his  banditti-like  associates. 
For  her  own  part,  she  had  reason  to  believe  that  lie 


MAY  AND  NOVEMBER.  109 

practised  animal  magnetism,  and,  if  such  things  were 
in  fashion  nowadays,  should  be  apt  to  suspect  him 
of  studying  the  Black  Art  up  there  in  his  lonesome 
chamber. 

"  But,  dear  cousin,"  said  Fhosbe,  "  if  the  young  man 
js  so  dangerous,  why  do  you  let  him  stay  ?  If  he  does 
nothing  worse,  he  may  set  the  house  on  fire !  " 

"  Why,  sometimes,"  answered  Hepzibah,  "  I  have 
seriously  made  it  a  question,  whether  I  ought  not  to 
send  him  away.  But,  with  all  his  oddities,  he  is  a 
quiet  kind  of  a  person,  and  has  such  a  way  of  taking 
hold  of  one's  mind,  that,  without  exactly  liking  him 
(for  I  don't  know  enough  of  the  young  man),  I  should 
be  sorry  to  lose  sight  of  him  entirely.  A  woman 
clings  to  slight  acquaintances  when  she  lives  so  much 
alone  as  I  do." 

"  But  if  Mr.  Holgrave  is  a  lawless  person !  "  remon- 
strated Phffibe,  a  part  of  whose  essence  it  Avas  to  keep 
within  the  limits  of  law. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Hepzibah,  carelessly,  —  for,  formal  as 
she  was,  still,  in  her  life's  experience,  she  had  gnashed 
her  teeth  against  human  law,  —  "I  suppose  he  has  a 
law  of  his  own  I " 


MAULE'S  WELL. 

AFTER  an  early  tea,  the  little  country-girl  strayed 
into  the  garden.  The  enclosure  had  formerly  been 
very  extensive,  but  was  now  contracted  within  small 
compass,  and  hemmed  about,  partly  by  high  wooden 
fences,  and  partly  by  the  outbuildings  of  houses  that 
stood  on  another  street.  In  its  centre  was  a  grass-plat, 
surrounding  a  ruinous  little  structure,  which  showed 
just  enough  of  its  original  design  to  indicate  that  it 
had  once  been  a  summer-house.  A  hop-vine,  spring- 
ing from  last  year's  root,  was  beginning  to  clamber 
over  it,  but  would  be  long  in  covering  the  roof  with  its 
green  mantle.  Three  of  the  seven  gables  either  fronted 
or  looked  sideways,  with  a  dark  solemnity  of  aspect, 
down  into  the  garden. 

The  black,  rich  soil  had  fed  itself  with  the  decay  of 
a  long  period  of  time  ;  such  as  fallen  leaves,  the  petals 
of  flowers,  and  the  stalks  and  seed-vessels  of  vagrant 
and  lawless  plants,  more  useful  after  their  death  than 
ever  while  flaunting  in  the  sun.  The  evil  of  these  de- 
parted years  would  naturally  have  sprung  up  again,  in 
such  rank  weeds  (symbolic  of  the  transmitted  vices  of 
society)  as  are  always  prone  to  root  themselves  about 
human  dwellings.  Phosbe  saw,  however,  that  their 
growth  must  have  been  checked  by  a  degree  of  careful 
labor,  bestowed  daily  and  systematically  on  the  garden. 
The  white  double  rose-bush  had  evidently  been  propped 


MAULE'S   WELL.  Ill 

up  anew  against  the  house  since  the  commencement  of 
the  season;  and  a  pear-tree  and  three  damson-trees, 
which,  except  a  row  of  currant-bushes,  constituted  the 
only  varieties  of  fruit,  bore  marks  of  the  recent  am- 
putation of  several  superfluous  or  defective  limbs. 
There  were  also  a  few  species  of  antique  and  hereditary 
flowers,  in  no  very  flourishing  condition,  but  scrupu- 
lously weeded  ;  as  if  some  person,  either  out  of  love  or 
curiosity,  had  been  anxious  to  bring  them  to  such  per- 
fection as  they  were  capable  of  attaining.  The  re- 
mainder of  the  garden  presented  a  well-selected  assort- 
ment of  esculent  vegetables,  in  a  praiseworthy  state 
of  advancement.  Summer  squashes,  almost  in  their 
golden  blossom ;  cucumbers,  now  evincing  a  tendency 
to  spread  away  from  the  main  stock,  and  ramble  far 
and  wide ;  two  or  three  rows  of  string-beans,  and  as 
many  more  that  were  about  to  festoon  themselves  on 
poles;  tomatoes,  occupying  a  site  so  sheltered  and 
sunny  that  the  plants  were  already  gigantic,  and  prom- 
ised an  early  and  abundant  harvest. 

Pho3be  wondered  whose  care  and  toil  it  could  have 
been  that  had  planted  these  vegetables,  and  kept  the 
soil  so  clean  and  orderly.  Not  surely  her  cousin  Hep- 
zibah's,  who  had  no  taste  nor  spirits  for  the  lady-like 
employment  of  cultivating  flowers,  and  —  with  her  re- 
cluse habits,  and  tendency  to  shelter  herself  within  the 
dismal  shadow  of  the  house — would  hardly  have  come 
forth  under  the  speck  of  open  sky  to  weed  and  hoe 
among  the  fraternity  of  beans  and  squashes. 

It  being  her  first  day  of  complete  estrangement  from 
rural  objects,  Phoebe  found  an  unexpected  charm  in 
this  little  nook  of  grass,  and  foliage,  and  aristocratic 
flowers,  and  plebeian  vegetables.  The  eye  of  Heaven 
ieemed  to  look  down  into  it  pleasantly,  and  with  a  pe» 


112      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

culiar  smile,  as  if  glad  to  perceive  that  nature,  else- 
where overwhelmed,  and  driven  out  of  the  dusty  town, 
had  here  been  able  to  retain  a  breathing-place.  The 
spot  acquired  a  somewhat  wilder  grace,  and  yet  a  very 
gentle  one,  from  the  fact  that  a  pair  of  robins  had  built 
their  nest  in  the  pear-tree,  and  were  making  themselves 
exceedingly  busy  and  happy  in  the  dark  intricacy  of  its 
boughs.  Bees,  too,  —  strange,  to  say,  —  had  thought  it 
worth  their  while  to  come  hither,  possibly  from  the 
range  of  hives  beside  some  farm-house  miles  away. 
How  many  aerial  voyages  might  they  have  made,  in 
quest  of  honey,  or  honey-laden,  betwixt  dawn  and  sun- 
set !  Yet,  late  as  it  now  was,  there  still  arose  a  pleas- 
ant hum  out  of  one  or  two  of  the  squash-blossoms,  in 
the  depths  of  which  these  bees  were  plying  their  golden 
labor.  There  was  one  other  object  in  the  garden  which 
Nature  might  fairly  claim  as  her  inalienable  property, 
in  spite  of  whatever  man  could  do  to  render  it  his  own. 
This  was  a  fountain,  set  round  with  a  rim  of  old  mossy 
stones,  and  paved,  in  its  bed,  with  what  appeared  to 
be  a  sort  of  mosaic- work  of  variously  colored  pebbles. 
The  play  and  slight  agitation  of  the  water,  in  its  up- 
ward gush,  wrought  magically  with  these  variegated 
pebbles,  and  made  a  continually  shifting  apparition  of 
quaint  figures,  vanishing  too  suddenly  to  be  definable. 
Thence,  swelling  over  the  rim  of  moss-grown  stones, 
the  water  stole  away  under  the  fence,  through  what  we 
regret  to  call  a  gutter,  rather  than  a  channel. 

Nor  must  we  forget  to  mention  a  hen-coop  of  very 
reverend  antiquity  that  stood  in  the  farther  corner  of 
the  garden,  not  a  great  way  from  the  fountain.  It  now 
contained  only  Chanticleer,  his  two  wives,  and  a  soli- 
tary chicken.  All  of  them  were  pure  specimens  of  a 
breed  which  had  been  transmitted  down  as  an  heirloom 


MAULERS   WELL.  113 

In  the  Pyncheon  family,  and  were  said,  while  in  their 
prime,  to  have  attained  almost  the  size  of  turkeys,  and, 
on  the  score  of  delicate  flesh,  to  be  fit  for  a  prince's 
table.  In  proof  of  the  authenticity  of  this  legendary 
renown.  Hepzibah  could  have  exhibited  the  shell  of  a 
great  egg,  which  an  ostrich  need  hardly  have  been 
ashamed  of.  Be  that  as  it  might,  the  hens  were  now 
scarcely  larger  than  pigeons,  and  had  a  queer,  rusty, 
withered  aspect,  and  a  gouty  kind  of  movement;,  and  a 
sleepy  and  melancholy  tone  throughout  all  the  varia- 
tions of  their  clucking  and  cackling.  It  was  evident 
that  the  race  had  degenerated,  like  many  a  noble  race 
besides,  in  consequence  of  too  strict  a  watchfulness  to 
keep  it  pure.  These  feathered  people  had  existed  too 
long  in  their  distinct  variety ;  a  fact  of  which  the  pres- 
ent representatives,  judging  by  their  lugubrious  deport- 
ment, seemed  to  be  aware.  They  kept  themselves 
alive,  unquestionably,  and  laid  now  and  then  an  egg, 
and  hatched  a  chicken ;  not  for  any  pleasure  of  their 
own,  but  that  the  world  might  not  absolutely  lose  what 
had  once  been  so  admirable  a  breed  of  fowls.  The  dis- 
tinguishing mark  of  the  hens  was  a  crest  of  lamenta- 
bly scanty  growth,  in  these  latter  days,  but  so  oddly 
and  wickedly  analogous  to  Hepzibah's  turban,  that 
Phoebe  —  to  the  poignant  distress  of  her  conscience, 
but  inevitably — was  led  to  fancy  a  general  resem- 
blance betwixt  these  forlorn  bipeds  and  her  respecta- 
ble relative. 

The  girl  ran  into  the  house  to  get  some  crumbs  of 
bread,  cold  potatoes,  and  other  such  scraps  as  were 
suitable  to  the  accommodating  appetite  of  fowls.  Re- 
turning, she  gave  a  peculiar  call,  which  they  seemed  to 
recognize.  The  chicken  crept  through  the  pales  of  the 
coop  and  ran,  with  some  show  of  liveliness,  to  her  feet  j 


114   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

while  Chanticleer  and  the  ladies  of  his  household  re- 
garded  her  with  queer,  sidelong  glances,  and  then 
croaked  one  to  another,  as  if  communicating  their  sage 
opinions  of  her  character.  So  wise,  as  well  as  antique, 
was  their  aspect,  as  to  give  color  to  the  idea,  not  merely 
that  they  were  the  descendants  of  a  time-honored  race 
but  that  they  had  existed,  in  their  individual  capacity, 
ever  since  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  was  foundedj, 
and  were  somehow  mixed  up  with  its  destiny.  They 
were  a  species  of  tutelary  sprite,  or  Banshee ;  although 
winged  and  feathered  differently  from  most  other 
guardian  angels. 

"  Here,  you  odd  little  chicken ! "  said  Phoebe ;  "  here 
are  some  nice  crumbs  for  you !  " 

The  chicken,  hereupon,  though  almost  as  venerable 
in  appearance  as  its  mother,  —  possessing,  indeed,  the 
whole  antiquity  of  its  progenitors  in  miniature,  —  mus- 
tered vivacity  enough  to  flutter  upward  and  alight  on 
Phoebe's  shoulder. 

"  That  little  fowl  pays  you  a  high  compliment !  " 
said  a  voice  behind  Phoebe. 

Turning  quickly,  she  was  surprised  at  sight  of  a 
young  man,  who  had  found  access  into  the  garden  by 
a  door  opening  out  of  another  gable  than  that  whence 
she  had  emerged.  He  held  a  hoe  in  his  hand,  and, 
while  Phoebe  was  gone  in  quest  of  the  crumbs,  had  be- 
gun to  busy  himself  with  drawing  up  fresh  earth  about 
the  roots  of  the  tomatoes. 

"  The  chicken  really  treats  you  like  an  old  acquaint- 
ance," continued  he,  in  a  quiet  way,  while  a  smile 
made  his  face  pleasanter  than  Phoebe  at  first  fancied 
it.  "Those  venerable  personages  in  the  coop,  too, 
seem  very  affably  disposed.  You  are  lucky  to  be  in 
their  good  graces  so  soon!  They  have  known  mo 


MAULE'S   WELL.  115 

much  longer,  but  never  honor  me  with  any  familiarity, 
though  hardly  a  day  passes  without  my  bringing  them 
food.  Miss  Hepzibah,  I  suppose,  will  interweave  the 
fact  with  her  other  traditions,  and  set  it  down  that  the 
fowls  know  you  to  be  a  Pyncheon  !  " 

"  The  secret  is,"  said  Phoebe,  smiling,  "  that  I  have 
learned  how  to  talk  with  hens  and  chickens." 

"  Ah,  but  these  hens,"  answered  the  young  man,  — 
"  these  hens  of  aristocratic  lineage  would  scorn  to  un- 
derstand the  vulgar  language  of  a  barn-yard  fowl.  I 
prefer  to  think  —  and  so  would  Miss  Hepzibah  —  that 
they  recognize  the  family  tone.  For  you  are  a  Pyn- 
cheon?" 

"  My  name  is  Phoebe  Pyncheon,"  said  the  girl,  with, 
a  manner  of  some  reserve  ;  for  she  was  aware  that  her 
new  acquaintance  could  be  no  other  than  the  daguerre- 
otypist,  of  whose  lawless  propensities  the  old  maid  had 
given  her  a  disagreeable  idea.  "  I  did  not  know  that 
my  cousin  Hepzibah's  garden  was  under  another  per- 
son's care." 

"  Yes,"  said  Holgrave,  "  I  dig,  and  hoe,  and  weed, 
in  this  black  old  earth,  for  the  sake  of  refreshing  my- 
self with  what  little  nature  and  simplicity  may  be  left 
in  it,  after  men  have  so  long  sown  and  reaped  here. 
I  turn  up  the  earth  by  way  of  pastime.  My  sober  oc- 
cupation, so  far  as  I  have  any,  is  with  a  lighter  ma- 
terial. In  short,  I  make  pictures  out  of  sunshine ; 
and,  not  to  be  too  much  dazzled  with  my  own  trade,  I 
have  prevailed  with  Miss  Hepzibah  to  let  me  lodge  in 
one  of  these  dusky  gables.  It  is  like  a  bandage  over 
one's  eyes,  to  come  into  it.  But  would  you  like  to  see 
a  specimen  of  my  productions?  " 

"  A  daguerreotype  likeness,  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked 
Phoebe,  with  less  reserve ;  for,  in  spite  of  prejudice) 


116      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

her  own  youthfulness  sprang  forward  to  meet  his.  **I 
don't  much  like  pictures  of  that  sort,  —  they  are  so 
hard  and  stern ;  besides  dodging  away  from  the  eye, 
and  trying  to  escape  altogether.  They  are  conscious 
of  looking  very  unamiable,  I  suppose,  and  therefore 
hate  to  be  seen." 

"  If  you  would  permit  me,"  said  the  artist,  looking 
at  Phoebe,  "  I  should  like  to  try  whether  the  daguerre- 
otype can  bring  out  disagreeable  traits  on  a  perfectly 
amiable  face.  But  there  certainly  is  truth  in  what 
you  have  said.  Most  of  my  likenesses  do  look  un- 
amiable ;  but  the  very  sufficient  reason,  I  fancy,  is, 
because  the  originals  are  so.  There  is  a  wonderful 
insight  in  Heaven's  broad  and  simple  sunshine. 
While  we  give  it  credit  only  for  depicting  the  merest 
surface,  it  actually  brings  out  the  secret  character  with 
a  truth  that  no  painter  would  ever  venture  upon,  even 
could  he  detect  it.  There  is,  at  least,  no  flattery  in 
my  humble  line  of  art.  Now,  here  is  a  likeness  which 
I  have  taken  over  and  over  again,  and  still  with  no 
better  result.  Yet  the  original  wears,  to  common 
eyes,  a  very  different  expression.  It  would  gratify 
me  to  have  your  judgment  on  this  character." 

He  exhibited  a  daguerreotype  miniature  in  a  mo- 
rocco case.  Phrebe  merely  glanced  at  it,  and  gave  it 
back. 

"  I  know  the  face,"  she  replied  ;  "  for  its  stern  eye 
has  been  following  me  about  all  day.  It  is  my  Puri- 
tan ancestor,  who  hangs  yonder  in  the  parlor.  To  be 
Sure,  you  have  found  some  way  of  copying  the  portrait 
without  its  black  velvet  cap  and  gray  beard,  and  have 
given  him  a  modern  coat  and  satin  cravat,  instead  of 
his  cloak  and  band.  I  don't  think  him  improved  by 
your  alterations.'* 


MAULE'S  WELL.  117 

"You  would  have  seen  other  differences  had  you 
looked  a  little  longer,"  said  Holgrave,  laughing,  yet 
apparently  much  struck.  "  I  can  assure  you  that  this 
is  a  modern  face,  and  one  which  you  will  very  prob- 
ably meet.  Now,  the  remarkable  point  is,  that  the 
original  wears,  to  the  world's  eye,  —  and,  for  aught  I 
know,  to  his  most  intimate  friends,  —  an  exceedingly 
pleasant  countenance,  indicative  of  benevolence,  open- 
ness of  heart,  sunny  good -humor,  and  other  praise- 
worthy qualities  of  that  cast.  The  sun,  as  you  see, 
tells  quite  another  story,  and  will  not  be  coaxed  out 
of  it,  after  half  a  dozen  patient  attempts  on  my  part. 
Here  we  have  the  man,  sly,  subtle,  hard,  imperious, 
and,  withal,  cold  as  ice.  Look  at  that  eye  !  Would 
you  like  to  be  at  its  mercy  ?  At  that  mouth  !  Could 
it  ever  smile  ?  And  yet,  if  you  could  only  see  the 
benign  smile  of  the  original !  It  is  so  much  the  more 
unfortunate,  as  he  is  a  public  character  of  some  emi- 
nence, and  the  likeness  was  intended  to  be  engraved." 

"  Well,  I  don't  wish  to  see  it  any  more,"  observed 
Phoebe,  turning  away  her  eyes.  "  It  is  certainly  very 
like  the  old  portrait.  But  my  cousin  Hepzibah  has 
another  picture,  —  a  miniature.  If  the  original  is  still 
in  the  world,  I  think  he  might  defy  the  sun  to  make 
him  look  stern  and  hard." 

"  You  have  seen  that  picture,  then !  "  exclaimed  the 
artist,  with  an  expression  of  much  interest.  "  I  never 
did,  but  have  a  great  curiosity  to  do  so.  And  you 
judge  favorably  of  the  face  ?  " 

"  There  never  was  a  sweeter  one,"  said  Phoebe.  "  It 
is  almost  too  soft  and  gentle  for  a  man's." 

"  Is  there  nothing  wild  in  the  eye  ?  "  continued  Hol- 
grave, so  earnestly  that  it  embarrassed  Phoebe,  as  did 
also  the  quiet  freedom  with  which  he  presumed  on 


118   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

their  so  recent  acquaintance.  "  Is  there  nothing  dark 
or  sinister  anywhere?  Could  you  not  conceive  the 
original  to  have  been  guilty  of  a  great  crime  ?  " 

"  It  is  nonsense,"  said  Pho3be,  a  little  impatiently, 
44  for  us  to  talk  about  a  picture  which  you  have  never 
seen.     You  mistake  it  for  some  other.     A  crime,  in- 
deed !     Since  you  are  a  friend  of  my  cousin  Hepzi 
bah's,  you  should  ask  her  to  show  you  the  picture." 

"  It  will  suit  my  purpose  still  better  to  see  the  orig- 
inal," replied  the  daguerreotypist  coolly.  "As  to  his 
character,  we  need  not  discuss  its  points ;  they  have 
already  been  settled  by  a  competent  tribunal,  or  one 
which  called  itself  competent.  But,  stay  !  Do  not  go 
yet,  if  you  please!  I  have  a  proposition  to  make 
you." 

Phffibe  was  on  the  point  of  retreating,  but  turned 
back,  with  some  hesitation ;  for  she  did  not  exactly 
comprehend  his  manner,  although,  on  better  observa- 
tion, its  feature  seemed  rather  to  be  lack  of  ceremony 
than  any  approach  to  offensive  rudeness.  There  was 
an  odd  kind  of  authority,  too,  in  what  he  now  pro- 
ceeded to  say,  rather  as  if  the  garden  were  his  own 
than  a  place  to  which  he  was  admitted  merely  by 
Hepzibah's  courtesy, 

"  If  agreeable  to  you,"  he  observed,  "  it  would  give 
me  pleasure  to  turn  over  these  flowers,  and  those  an- 
cient and  respectable  fowls,  to  your  care.  Coming 
fresh  from  country  air  and  occupations,  you  will  soon 
feel  the  need  of  some  such  out-of-door  employment. 
My  own  sphere  does  not  so  much  lie  among  flowers. 
You  can  trim  and  tend  them,  therefore,  as  you  please ; 
and  I  will  ask  only  the  least  trifle  of  a  blossom,  now 
and  then,  in  exchange  for  all  the  good,  honest  kitchen- 
vegetables  with  which  I  propose  to  enrich  Miss  Hep 


MAULE'S   WELL.  119 

ribah's  table.  So  we  will  be  fellow-laborers,  somewhat 
on  the  community  system." 

Silently,  and  rather  surprised  at  her  own  compli- 
ance, Phoebe  accordingly  betook  herself  to  weeding  a 
flower-bed,  but  busied  herself  still  more  with  cogita- 
tions respecting  this  young  man,  with  whom  she  so 
unexpectedly  found  herself  on  terms  approaching  to 
familiarity.  She  did  not  altogether  like  him.  His 
character  perplexed  the  little  country-girl,  as  it  might 
a  more  practised  observer ;  for,  while  the  tone  of  his 
conversation  had  generally  been  playful,  the  impres- 
sion left  on  her  mind  was  that  of  gravity,  and,  except 
as  his  youth  modified  it,  almost  sternness.  She  re- 
belled, as  it  were,  against  a  certain  magnetic  element 
in  the  artist's  nature,  which  he  exercised  towards  her, 
possibly  without  being  conscious  of  it. 

After  a  little  while,  the  twilight,  deepened  by  the 
shadows  of  the  fruit-trees  and  the  surrounding  build- 
ings, threw  an  obscurity  over  the  garden. 

"  There,"  said  Holgrave,  "  it  is  time  to  give  over 
work !  That  last  stroke  of  the  hoe  has  cut  off  a  bean- 
stalk. Good-night,  Miss  Phoebe  Pyncheon !  Any 
bright  day,  if  you  will  put  one  of  those  rosebuds  in 
your  hair,  and  come  to  my  rooms  in  Central  Street,  I 
will  seize  the  purest  ray  of  sunshine,  and  make  a  pic- 
ture of  the  flower  and  its  wearer." 

He  retired  towards  his  own  solitary  gable,  but  turned 
his  head,  on  reaching  the  door,  and  called  to  Phoebe, 
with  a  tone  which  certainly  had  laughter  in  it,  yet 
which  seemed  to  be  more  than  half  in  earnest. 

"  Be  careful  not  to  drink  at  Maule's  well !  "  said 
he.  "  Neither  drink  nor  bathe  your  face  in  it !  " 

"  Maule's  well !  "  answered  Phoebe.  "  Is  that  it 
with  the  rim  of  mossy  stones  ?  I  have  no  thought  of 
drinking  there,  —  but  why  not  ?  " 


120   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  Oh,"  rejoined  the  daguerreotypist,  "  because,  like 
an  old  lady's  cup  of  tea,  it  is  water  bewitched  !  " 

He  vanished  ;  and  Phoebe,  lingering  a  moment,  saw 
a  glimmering  light,  and  then  the  steady  beam  of  a 
lamp,  in  a  chamber  of  the  gable.  On  returning  into 
Hepzibah's  apartment  of  the  house,  she  found  the  low- 
studded  parlor  so  dim  and  dusky  that  her  eyes  could 
not  penetrate  the  interior.  She  was  indistinctly  awares 
however,  that  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  gentlewoman 
was  sitting  in  one  of  the  straight-backed  chairs,  a  little 
withdrawn  from  the  window,  the  faint  gleam  of  which 
showed  the  blanched  paleness  of  her  cheek,  turned  side- 
way  towards  a  corner. 

"  Shall  I  light  a  lamp,  Cousin  Hepzibah  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  Do,  if  you  please,  my  dear  child,"  answered  Hep- 
zibah. "  But  put  it  on  the  table  in  the  corner  of  the 
passage.  My  eyes  are  weak ;  and  I  can  seldom  bear 
the  lamplight  on  them." 

What  an  instrument  is  the  human  voice  !  How  won- 
derfully responsive  to  every  emotion  of  the  human 
soul !  In  Hepzibah's  tone,  at  that  moment,  there  was 
a  certain  rich  depth  and  moisture,  as  if  the  words, 
commonplace  as  they  were,  had  been  steeped  in  the 
warmth  of  her  heart.  Again,  while  lighting  the  lamp 
in  the  kitchen,  Phoebe  fancied  that  her  cousin  spoke  to 
her. 

"  In  a  moment,  cousin  !  "  answered  the  girl.  "  These 
matches  just  glimmer,  and  go  out." 

But,  instead  of  a  response  from  Hepzibah,  she  seemed 
to  hear  the  murmur  of  an  unknown  voice.  It  was 
strangely  indistinct,  however,  and  less  like  articulate 
words  than  an  unshaped  sound,  such  as  would  be  the 
utterance  of  feeling  and  sympathy,  rather  than  of  the 


MAULE'S   WELL.  121 

intellect.  So  vague  was  it,  that  its  impression  or  echo 
in  Phoebe's  mind  was  that  of  unreality.  She  con- 
cluded that  she  must  have  mistaken  some  other  sound 
for  that  of  the  human  voice ;  or  else  that  it  was  al- 
together in  her  fancy. 

She  set  the  lighted  lamp  in  the  passage,  and  again 
entered  the  parlor.  Hepzibah's  form,  though  its  sable 
outline  mingled  with  the  dusk,  was  now  less  imper- 
fectly visible.  In  the  remoter  parts  of  the  room,  how- 
ever, its  walls  being  so  ill  adapted  to  reflect  light,  there 
was  nearly  the  same  obscurity  as  before. 

"  Cousin,"  said  Phoebe,  "  did  you  speak  to  me  just 
now?" 

"  No,  child !  "  replied  Hepzibah. 

Fewer  words  than  before,  but  with  the  same  mys- 
terious music  in  them !  Mellow,  melancholy,  yet  not 
mournful,  the  tone  seemed  to  gush  up  out  of  the  deep 
well  of  Hepzibah's  heart,  all  steeped  in  its  profoundest 
emotion.  There  was  a  tremor  in  it,  too,  that  —  as  all 
strong  feeling  is  electric  —  partly  communicated  itself 
to  Phoebe.  The  girl  sat  silently  for  a  moment.  But 
soon,  her  senses  being  very  acute,  she  became  conscious 
of  an  irregular  respiration  in  an  obscure  corner  of 
the  room.  Her  physical  organization,  moreover,  being 
at  once  delicate  and  healthy,  gave  her  a  perception, 
operating  with  almost  the  effect  of  a  spiritual  medium, 
that  somebody  was  near  at  hand. 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  asked  she,  overcoming  an  inde- 
finable reluctance,  "  is  there  not  some  one  in  the  room 
with  us  ?  " 

"  Phoebe,  my  dear  little  girl,"  said  Hepzibah,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "  you  were  up  betimes,  and  have 
been  busy  all  day.  Pray  go  to  bed ;  for  I  am  sure 
you  must  need  rest.  I  will  sit  in  the  parlor  awhile, 


122     THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

and  collect  my  thoughts.  It  has  been  my  custom  for 
more  years,  child,  than  you  have  lived !  " 

While  thus  dismissing  her,  the  maiden  lady  stept 
forward,  kissed  Phoebe,  and  pressed  her  to  her  heart, 
which  beat  against  the  girl's  bosom  with  a  strong, 
high,  and  tumultuous  swell.  How  came  there  to  be  so 
much  love  in  this  desolate  old  heart,  that  it  could 
afford  to  well  over  thus  abundantly  ? 

"  Good  night,  cousin,"  said  Pho3be,  strangely  af- 
fected by  Hepzibah's  manner.  "  If  you  begin  to  love 
me,  I  am  glad !  " 

She  retired  to  her  chamber,  but  did  not  soon  fall 
asleep,  nor  then  very  profoundly.  At  some  uncertain 
period  in  the  depths  of  night,  and,  as  it  were,  through 
the  thin  veil  of  a  dream,  she  was  conscious  of  a  foot- 
step mounting  the  stairs  heavily,  but  not  with  force 
and  decision.  The  voice  of  Hepzibah,  with  a  hush 
through  it,  was  going  up  along  with  the  footsteps ; 
and,  again,  responsive  to  her  cousin's  voice,  Phoabe 
heard  that  strange,  vague  murmur,  which  might  be 
likened  to  an  indistinct  shadow  of  human  utterance* 


ra 

THE  GUEST. 

WHEN  Phoebe  awoke,  —  which  she  did  with  the 
.sarly  twittering  of  the  conjugal  couple  of  robins  in 
the  pear-tree, —  she  heard  movements  below  stairs, 
and,  hastening  down,  found  Hepzibah  already  in  the 
kitchen.  She  stood  by  a  window,  holding  a  book  in 
.close  contiguity  to  her  nose,  as  if  with  the  hope  of 
gaining  an  olfactory  acquaintance  with  its  contents, 
since  her  imperfect  vision  made  it  not  very  easy  to 
read  them.  If  any  volume  could  have  manifested  its 
essential  wisdom  in  the  mode  suggested,  it  would  cer- 
tainly have  been  the  one  now  in  Hepzibah's  hand ; 
and  the  kitchen,  in  such  an  event,  would  forthwith 
have  steamed  with  the  fragrance  of  venison,  turkeys, 
capons,  larded  partridges,  puddings,  cakes,  and  Christ- 
mas pies,  in  all  manner  of  elaborate  mixture  and  con- 
coction. It  was  a  cookery  book,  full  of  innumerable 
^ld  fashions  of  English  dishes,  and  illustrated  with 
sngravings,  which  represented  the  arrangements  of 
the  table  at  such  banquets  as  it  might  have  befitted 
a  nobleman  to  give  in  the  great  hall  of  his  castle. 
And,  amid  these  rich  and  potent  devices  of  the  culi- 
nary art  (not  one  of  which,  probably,  had  been  tested, 
within  the  memory  of  any  man's  grandfather),  poor 
Hepzibah  was  seeking  for  some  nimble  little  titbit, 
which,  with  what  skill  she  had,  and  such  materials  as 
Were  at  hand,  she  might  toss  up  for  breakfast. 


124     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Soon,  with  a  deep  sigh,  she  put  aside  the  savory  vol- 
ume, and  inquired  of  Phoebe  whether  old  Speckle,  as 
she  called  one  of  the  hens,  had  laid  an  egg  the  preced- 
ing day.  Phoebe  ran  to  see,  but  returned  without 
the  expected  treasure  in  her  hand.  At  that  instant, 
however,  the  blast  of  a  fish-dealer's  conch  was  heard, 
announcing  his  approach  along  the  street.  With 
energetic  raps  at  the  shop -window,  Hepzibah  sum- 
moned the  man  in,  and  made  purchase  of  what  he 
warranted  as  the  finest  mackerel  in  his  cart,  and  as 
fat  a  one  as  ever  he  felt  with  his  finger  so  early  in  the 
season.  Requesting  Phoabe  to  roast  some  coffee, — 
which  she  casually  observed  was  the  real  Mocha,  and 
so  long  kept  that  each  of  the  small  berries  ought  to  be 
worth  its  weight  in  gold,  —  the  maiden  lady  heaped 
fuel  into  the  vast  receptacle  of  the  ancient  fireplace 
in  such  quantity  as  soon  to  drive  the  lingering  dusk 
out  of  the  kitchen.  The  country-girl,  willing  to  give 
her  utmost  assistance,  proposed  to  make  an  Indian 
cake,  after  her  mother's  peculiar  method,  of  easy 
manufacture,  and  which  she  could  vouch  for  as  posses- 
sing a  richness,  and,  if  rightly  prepared,  a  delicacy, 
unequalled  by  any  other  mode  of  breakfast-cake.  Hep- 
zibah gladly  assenting,  the  kitchen  was  soon  the  scene 
of  savory  preparation.  Perchance,  amid  their  proper 
element  of  smoke,  which  eddied  forth  from  the  ill- 
constructed  chimney,  the  ghosts  of  departed  cook- 
maids  looked  wonderingly  on,  or  peeped  down  the 
great  breadth  of  the  flue,  despising  the  simplicity  of 
the  projected  meal,  yet  ineffectually  pining  to  thrust 
their  shadowy  hands  into  each  inchoate  dish.  The 
half-starved  rats,  at  any  rate,  stole  visibly  out  of  their 
hiding-places,  and  sat  on  their  hind-legs,  snuffing  the 
fumy  atmosphere,  and  wistfully  awaiting  an  opportu- 
nity to  nibble. 


THE  GUEST.  125 

Hepzibah  had  no  natural  turn  for  cookery,  and,  to 
say  the  truth,  had  fairly  incurred  her  present  mea- 
greness  by  often  choosing  to  go  without  her  dinner 
rather  than  be  attendant  on  the  rotation  of  the  spit, 
or  ebullition  of  the  pot.  Her  zeal  over  the  fire,  there- 
fore, was  quite  an  heroic  test  of  sentiment.  It  was 
touching,  and  positively  worthy  of  tears  (if  Phoebe? 
the  only  spectator,  except  the  rats  and  ghosts  afore* 
said,  had  not  been  better  employed  than  in  shedding 
them),  to  see  her  rake  out  a  bed  of  fresh  and  glowing 
coals,  and  proceed  to  broil  the  mackerel.  Her  usually 
pale  cheeks  were  all  ablaze  with  heat  and  hurry.  She 
watched  the  fish  with  as  much  tender  care  and  minute- 
ness of  attention  as  if,  —  we  know  not  how  to  express 
it  otherwise,  —  as  if  her  own  heart  were  on  the  grid- 
iron, and  her  immortal  happiness  were  involved  in  its 
being  done  precisely  to  a  turn  ! 

Life,  within  doors,  has  few  pleasanter  prospects  than 
a  neatly  arranged  and  well-provisioned  breakfast-table. 
We  come  to  it  freshly,  in  the  dewy  youth  of  the  day, 
and  when  our  spiritual  and  sensual  elements  are  in 
better  accord  than  at  a  later  period ;  so  that  the  ma- 
terial delights  of  the  morning  meal  are  capable  of 
being  fully  enjoyed,  without  any  very  grievous  re 
preaches,  whether  gastric  or  conscientious,  for  yield- 
ing even  a  trifle  overmuch  to  the  animal  department 
of  our  nature.  The  thoughts,  too,  that  run  around 
the  ring  of  familiar  guests  have  a  piquancy  and  mirth^ 
fulness,  and  oftentimes  a  vivid  truth,  which  more 
rarely  find  their  way  into  the  elaborate  intercourse 
of  dinner.  Hepzibah's  small  and  ancient  table,  sup- 
ported on  its  slender  and  graceful  legs,  and  covered 
with  a  cloth  of  the  richest  damask,  looked  worthy  to 
be  the  scene  and  centre  of  one  of  the  cheerf  idlest  of 


126     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

parties.  The  vapor  of  the  broiled  fish  arose  like  in- 
cense from  the  shrine  of  a  barbarian  idol,  while  the 
fragrance  of  the  Mocha  might  have  gratified  the  nos- 
trils of  a  tutelary  Lar,  or  whatever  power  has  scope 
over  a  modern  breakfast-table.  Phoebe's  Indian  cakes 
were  the  sweetest  offering  of  all,  —  in  their  hue  befit- 
ting the  rustic  altars  of  the  innocent  and  golden  age, 
—  or,  so  brightly  yellow  were  they,  resembling  some 
of  the  bread  which  was  changed  to  glistening  gold 
when  Midas  tried  to  eat  it.  The  butter  must  not  be 
forgotten,  —  butter  which  Phoebe  herself  had  churned, 
in  her  own  rural  home,  and  brought  it  to  her  cousin 
as  a  propitiatory  gift, —  smelling  of  clover-blossoms, 
and  diffusing  the  charm  of  pastoral  scenery  through 
the  dark-panelled  parlor.  All  this,  with  the  quaint 
gorgeousness  of  the  old  china  cups  and  saucers,  and 
the  crested  spoons,  and  a  silver  cream-jug  (Hepzibah's 
only  other  article  of  plate,  and  shaped  like  the  rudest 
porringer),  set  out  a  board  at  which  the  stateliest  of 
old  Colonel  Pyncheon's  guests  need  not  have  scorned 
to  take  his  place.  But  the  Puritan's  face  scowled 
down  out  of  the  picture,  as  if  nothing  on  the  table 
pleased  his  appetite. 

By  way  of  contributing  what  grace  she  could,  Phoebe 
gathered  some  roses  and  a  few  other  flowers,  posses- 
sing either  scent  or  beauty,  and  arranged  them  in  a 
glass  pitcher,  which,  having  long  ago  lost  its  handle, 
was  so  much  the  fitter  for  a  flower-vase.  The  early 
sunshine  —  as  fresh  as  that  which  peeped  into  Eve's 
bower  while  she  and  Adam  sat  at  breakfast  there  — 
came  twinkling  through  the  branches  of  the  pear-tree, 
and  fell  quite  across  the  table.  All  was  now  ready. 
There  were  chairs  and  plates  for  three.  A  chair  and 
plate  for  Hepzibah,  —  the  same  for  Phoebe,  —  but 
what  other  guest  did  her  cousin  look  for  ? 


THE  GUEST.  127 

Throughout  this  preparation  there  had  been  a  con* 
staut  tremor  in  Hepzibah's  frame;  an  agitation  so 
powerful  that  Phrebe  could  see  the  quivering  of  her 
gaunt  shadow,  as  thrown  by  the  firelight  on  the 
kitchen  wall,  or  by  the  sunshine  on  the  parlor  floor. 
Its  manifestations  were  so  various,  and  agreed  so  little 
with  one  another,  that  the  girl  knew  not  what  to  make 
of  it.  Sometimes  it  seemed  an  ecstasy  of  delight  and 
happiness.  At  such  moments,  Hepzibah  would  fling 
out  her  arms,  and  infold  Phrebe  in  them,  and  kiss  her 
cheek  as  tenderly  as  ever  her  mother  had ;  she  ap- 
peared to  do  so  by  an  inevitable  impulse,  and  as  if  her 
bosom  were  oppressed  with  tenderness,  of  which  she 
must  needs  pour  out  a  little,  in  order  to  gain  breath- 
ing-room. The  next  moment,  without  any  visible 
cause  for  the  change,  her  unwonted  joy  shrank  back, 
appalled,  as  it  were,  and  clothed  itself  in  mourning ; 
or  it  ran  and  hid  itself,  so  to  speak,  in  the  dungeon  of 
her  heart,  where  it  had  long  lain  chained,  while  a  cold, 
spectral  sorrow  took  the  place  of  the  imprisoned  joy, 
that  was  afraid  to  be  enfranchised, — a  sorrow  as 
black  as  that  was  bright.  She  often  broke  into  a  lit- 
tle, nervous,  hysteric  laugh,  more  touching  than  any 
tears  could  be ;  and  forthwith,  as  if  to  try  which  was 
the  most  touching,  a  gush  of  tears  would  follow ;  or 
perhaps  the  laughter  and  tears  came  both  at  once,  and 
surrounded  our  poor  Hepzibah,  in  a  moral  sense,  with 
a  kind  of  pale,  dim  rainbow.  Towards  Phoabe,  as 
we  have  said,  she  was  affectionate,  —  far  tenderer 
than  ever  before,  in  their  brief  acquaintance,  except 
for  that  one  kiss  on  the  preceding  night,  —  yet  with 
a  continually  recurring  pettishness  and  irritability. 
She  would  speak  sharply  to  her ;  then,  throwing  aside 
all  the  starched  reserve  of  her  ordinary  manner,  ask 


128     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

pardon,  and  the  next  instant  renew  the  just-forgiven 
injury. 

At  last,  when  their  mutual  labor  was  all  finished, 
she  took  Phoebe's  hand  in  her  own  trembling  one. 

"  Bear  with  me,  my  dear  child,"  she  cried ;  "  for 
truly  my  heart  is  full  to  the  brim !  Bear  with  me ;  for 
I  love  you,  Phoabe,  though  I  speak  so  roughly !  Think 
nothing  of  it,  dearest  child !  By  and  by,  I  shall  be 
kind,  and  only  kind !  " 

"  My  dearest  cousin,  cannot  you  tell  me  what  has 
happened  ?  "  asked  Pho3be,  with  a  sunny  and  tearful 
sympathy.  "  What  is  it  that  moves  you  so  ?  " 

"  Hush !  hush !  He  is  coming !  "  whispered  Hep- 
zibah,  hastily  wiping  her  eyes.  "Let  him  see  you 
first,  Pho3be ;  for  you  are  young  and  rosy,  and  cannot 
help  letting  a  smile  break  out  whether  or  no.  He  al- 
ways liked  bright  faces !  And  mine  is  old  now,  and 
the  tears  are  hardly  dry  on  it.  He  never  could  abide 
tears.  There ;  draw  the  curtain  a  little,  so  that  the 
shadow  may  fall  across  his  side  of  the  table  !  But  let 
there  be  a  good  deal  of  sunshine,  too ;  for  he  never 
was  fond  of  gloom,  as  some  people  are.  He  has  had 
but  little  sunshine  in  his  life,  —  poor  Clifford,  —  and, 
oh,  what  a  black  shadow  !  Poor,  poor  Clifford  !  " 

Thus  murmuring  in  an  undertone,  as  if  speaking 
rather  to  her  own  heart  than  to  Phoebe,  the  old  gentle- 
woman stepped  on  tiptoe  about  the  room,  making  such 
arrangements  as  suggested  themselves  at  the  crisis. 

Meanwhile  there  was  a  step  in  the  passage-way, 
above  stairs.  Phoebe  recognized  it  as  the  same  which 
had  passed  upward,  as  through  her  dream,  in  the 
night-time.  The  approaching  guest,  whoever  it  might 
be,  appeared  to  pause  at  the  head  of  the  staircase  ;  he 
paused  twice  or  thrice  in  the  descent ;  he  paused  again 


THE  BUFFET 


THE  GUEST.  129 

at  the  foot.  Each  time,  the  delay  seemed  to  be  with- 
out purpose,  but  rather  from  a  forgetfulness  of  the 
purpose  which  had  set  him  in  motion,  or  as  if  the  per- 
son's feet  came  involuntarily  to  a  stand-still  because 
the  motive-power  was  too  feeble  to  sustain  his  pro- 
gress. Finally,  he  made  a  long  pause  at  the  threshold 
of  the  parlor.  He  took  hold  of  the  knob  of  the  door ; 
then  loosened  his  grasp  without  opening  it.  Hepzi. 
bah,  her  hands  convulsively  clasped,  stood  gazing  at 
the  entrance. 

"  Dear  Cousin  Hepzibah,  pray  don't  look  so !  "  said 
Phoebe,  trembling;  for  her  cousin's  emotion,  and 
this  mysteriously  reluctant  step,  made  her  feel  as  if  a 
ghost  were  coming  into  the  room.  "  You  really 
frighten  me !  Is  something  awful  going  to  happen  ?  " 

"  Hush !  "  whispered  Hepzibah.  "  Be  cheerful ! 
Whatever  may  happen,  be  nothing  but  cheerful !  " 

The  final  pause  at  the  threshold  proved  so  long, 
that  Hepzibah,  unable  to  endure  the  suspense,  rushed 
forward,  threw  open  the  door,  and  led  in  the  stranger 
by  the  hand.  At  the  first  glance,  Phoebe  saw  an  el- 
derly personage,  in  an  old-fashioned  dressing-gown  of 
faded  damask,  and  wearing  his  gray  or  almost  white 
hair  of  an  unusual  length.  It  quite  overshadowed  his 
forehead,  except  when  he  thrust  it  back,  and  stared 
vaguely  about  the  room.  After  a  very  brief  inspection 
of  his  face,  it  was  easy  to  conceive  that  his  footstep 
must  necessarily  be  such  an  one  as  that  which,  slowly, 
and  with  as  indefinite  an  aim  as  a  child's  first  journey 
across  a  floor,  had  just  brought  him  hitherward.  Yet 
there  were  no  tokens  that  his  physical  strength  might 
not  have  sufficed  for  a  free  and  determined  gait.  It 
was  the  spirit  of  the  man  that  could  not  walk.  The 
expression  of  his  countenance  —  while,  notwithstanor 

VOL.  III.  9 


130     THE  HOUSE  OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ing,  it  had  the  light  of  reason  in  it  —  seemed  to  waver; 
and  glimmer,  and  nearly  to  die  away,  and  feebly  to 
recover  itself  again.  It  was  like  a  flame  which  we  see 
twinkling  among  half -extinguished  embers ;  we  gaze 
at  it  more  intently  than  if  it  were  a  positive  blaze, 
gushing  vividly  upward,  —  more  intently,  but  with  a 
certain  impatience,  as  if  it  ought  either  to  kindle  it" 
self  into  satisfactory  splendor,  or  be  at  once  extin- 
guished. 

For  an  instant  after  entering  the  room,  the  guest 
stood  still,  retaining  Hepzibah's  hand,  instinctively,  as 
a  child  does  that  of  the  grown  person  who  guides  it. 
He  saw  Phrebe,  however,  and  caught  an  illumination 
from  her  youthful  and  pleasant  aspect,  which,  indeed, 
threw  a  cheerfulness  about  the  parlor,  like  the  circle 
of  reflected  brilliancy  around  the  glass  vase  of  flowers 
that  was  standing  in  the  sunshine.  He  made  a  saluta- 
tion, or,  to  speak  nearer  the  truth,  an  ill-defined,  abor- 
tive attempt  at  courtesy.  Imperfect  as  it  was,  how- 
ever, it  conveyed  an  idea,  or,  at  least,  gave  a  hint,  of 
indescribable  grace,  such  as  no  practised  art  of  exter- 
nal manners  could  have  attained.  It  was  too  slight  to 
seize  upon  at  the  instant;  yet,  as  recollected  after- 
wards, seemed  to  transfigure  the  whole  man. 

"  Dear  Clifford,"  said  Hepzibah,  in  the  tone  with 
which  one  soothes  a  wayward  infant,  "  this  is  our 
cousin  Phffibe,  —  little  Phrebe  Pyncheon,  —  Arthur's 
only  child,  you  know.  She  has  come  from  the  countn 
to  stay  with  us  awhile ;  for  our  old  house  has  grow* 
to  be  very  lonely  now." 

"Phrebe?  —  Phffibe  Pyneheon  ?  —  Phrebe  ?  "  re- 
peated  the  guest,  with  a  strange,  sluggish,  ill-defined 
utterance.  "  Arthur's  child  !  Ah,  I  forget  1  No  mat 
lex  I  She  is  very  welcome !  " 


THE   GUEST.  131 

•*  Come,  dear  Clifford,  take  this  chair,"  said  Hepzi. 
bah,  leading  him  to  his  place.  "  Pray,  Phoebe,  lower 
the  curtain  a  very  little  more.  Now  let  us  begin 
breakfast." 

The  guest  seated  himself  in  the  place  assigned  him. 
and  looked  strangely  around.  He  was  evidently  trying 
to  grapple  with  the  present  scene,  and  bring  it  home 
to  his  mind  with  a  more  satisfactory  distinctness.  He 
desired  to  be  certain,  at  least,  that  he  was  here,  in  the 
low-studded,  cross-beamed,  oaken-panelled  parlor,  and 
not  in  some  other  spot,  which  had  stereotyped  itself 
into  his  senses.  But  the  effort  was  too  great  to  be 
sustained  with  more  than  a  fragmentary  success.  Con- 
tinually, as  we  may  express  it,  he  faded  away  out  of 
his  place  ;  or,  in  other  words,  his  mind  and  conscious- 
ness took  their  departure,  leaving  his  wasted,  gray, 
and  melancholy  figure — a  substantial  emptiness,  a 
material  ghost — to  occupy  his  seat  at  table.  Again, 
after  a  blank  moment,  there  would  be  a  flickering 
taper-gleam  hi  his  eyeballs.  It  betokened  that  his 
spiritual  part  had  returned,  and  was  doing  its  best  to 
kindle  the  heart's  household  fire,  and  light  up  intel- 
lectual lamps  in  the  dark  and  ruinous  mansion,  where 
it  was  doomed  to  be  a  forlorn  inhabitant. 

At  one  of  these  moments  of  less  torpid,  yet  still  im- 
perfect animation,  Phosbe  became  convinced  of  what 
she  had  at  first  rejected  as  too  extravagant  and  start- 
ling an  idea.  She  saw  that  the  person  before  her 
must  have  been  the  original  of  the  beautiful  miniature 
in  her  cousin  Hepzibah's  possession.  Indeed,  with  a 
feminine  eye  for  costume,  she  had  at  once  identified 
the  damask  dressing-gown,  which  enveloped  him,  as 
the  same  in  figure,  material,  and  fashion,  with  that 
•o  elaborately  represented  in  the  picture.  This  old. 


132     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

faded  garment,  with  all  its  pristine  brilliancy  extinct, 
seemed,  in  some  indescribable  way,  to  translate  the 
wearer's  untold  misfortune,  and  make  it  perceptible 
to  the  beholder's  eye.  It  was  the  better  to  be  dis- 
cerned, by  this  exterior  type,  how  worn  and  old  were 
the  soul's  more  immediate  garments ;  that  form  and 
countenance,  the  beauty  and  grace  of  which  had  al- 
most transcended  the  skill  of  the  most  exquisite  of 
artists.  It  could  the  more  adequately  be  known  that 
the  soul  of  the  man  must  have  suffered  some  miserable 
wrong,  from  its  earthly  experience.  There  he  seemed 
to  sit,  with  a  dim  veil  of  decay  and  ruin  betwixt  him 
and  the  world,  but  through  which,  at  flitting  intervals, 
might  be  caught  the  same  expression,  so  refined,  so 
softly  imaginative,  which  Malbone —  venturing  a  happy 
touch,  with  suspended  breath  —  had  imparted  to  the 
miniature!  There  had  been  something  so  innately 
characteristic  in  this  look,  that  all  the  dusky  years, 
and  the  burden  of  unfit  calamity  which  had  fallen 
upon  him,  did  not  suffice  utterly  to  destroy  it. 

Hepzibah  had  now  poured  out  a  cup  of  deliciously 
fragrant  coffee,  and  presented  it  to  her  guest.  As  his 
eyes  met  hers,  he  seemed  bewildered  and  disquieted. 

"  Is  this  you,  Hepzibah  ?  "  he  murmured,  sadly ; 
then,  more  apart,  and  perhaps  unconscious  that  he 
was  overheard,  "  How  changed !  how  changed !  And 
is  she  angry  with  me  ?  Why  does  she  bend  her  brow 
so?" 

Poor  Hepzibah !  It  was  that  wretched  scowl  which 
time  and  her  near-sightedness,  and  the  fret  of  inward 
discomfort,  had  rendered  so  habitual  that  any  vehe- 
mence of  mood  invariably  evoked  it.  But  at  the  indis- 
tinct murmur  of  his  words  her  whole  face  grew  tender, 
and  even  lovely,  with  sorrowful  affection ;  the  harsh- 


THE  GUEST.  133 

ness  of  her  features  disappeared,  as  it  were,  behind 
the  warm  and  misty  glow. 

"  Angry !  "  she  repeated ;  "  angry  with  you,  Clif- 
ford !  " 

Her  tone,  as  she  uttered  the  exclamation,  had  a 
plaintive  and  really  exquisite  melody  thrilling  through 
it,  yet  without  subduing  a  certain  something  which  an 
obtuse  auditor  might  still  have  mistaken  for  asperity. 
It  was  as  if  some  transcendent  musician  should  draw 
a  soul-thrilling  sweetness  out  of  a  cracked  instrument, 
which  makes  its  physical  imperfection  heard  in  the 
midst  of  ethereal  harmony,  —  so  deep  was  the  sensi- 
bility that  found  an  organ  in  Hepzibah's  voice ! 

"There  is  nothing  but  love,  here,  Clifford,"  she 
added,  —  "  nothing  but  love  !  You  are  at  home !  " 

The  guest  responded  to  her  tone  by  a  smile,  which 
did  not  half  light  up  his  face.  Feeble  as  it  was,  how- 
ever, and  gone  in  a  moment,  it  had  a  charm  of  won- 
derful beauty.  It  was  followed  by  a  coarser  expres- 
sion ;  or  one  that  had  the  effect  of  coarseness  on  the 
fine  mould  and  outline  of  his  countenance,  because 
there  was  nothing  intellectual  to  temper  it.  It  was 
a  look  of  appetite.  He  ate  food  with  what  might 
almost  be  termed  voracity ;  and  seemed  to  forget  him- 
self, Hepzibah,  the  young  girl,  and  everything  else 
around  him,  in  the  sensual  enjoyment  which  the  boun- 
tifully spread  table  afforded.  In  his  natural  system, 
though  high-wrought  and  delicately  refined,  a  sensibil- 
ity to  the  delights  of  the  palate  was  probably  inherent. 
It  would  have  been  kept  in  check,  however,  and  even 
converted  into  an  accomplishment,  and  one  of  the 
thousand  modes  of  intellectual  culture,  had  his  more 
ethereal  characteristics  retained  their  vigor.  But  as 
it  existed  now,  the  effect  was  painful  and  made  Phoabe 
droop  her  eyes. 


134       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

In  a  little  while  the  guest  became  sensible  of  the  fra 
grance  of  the  yet  untasted  ooffee.  He  quaffed  it  ea- 
gerly. The  subtle  essence  acted  on  him  like  a  charmed 
draught,  and  caused  the  opaque  substance  of  his  animal 
being  to  grow  transparent,  or,  at  least,  iranslucent ;  so 
that  a  spiritual  gleam  was  transmitted  through  it,  with 
a  clearer  lustre  than  hitherto. 

"  More,  more !  "  he  cried,  with  nervous  haste  in  his 
utterance,  as  if  anxious  to  retain  his  grasp  of  what 
sought  to  escape  him.  "  This  is  what  I  need !  Give 
me  more ! " 

Under  this  delicate  and  powerful  influence  he  sat 
more  erect,  and  looked  out  from  his  eyes  with  a  glance 
that  took  note  of  what  it  rested  on.  It  was  not  sc 
much  that  his  expression  grew  more  intellectual ;  this, 
though  it  had  its  share,  was  not  the  most  peculiar  ef- 
fect. Neither  was  what  we  call  the  moral  nature  so 
forcibly  awakened  as  to  present  itself  in  remarkable 
prominence.  But  a  certain  fine  temper  of  being  was 
now  not  brought  out  in  full  relief,  but  changeably 
and  imperfectly  betrayed,  of  which  it  was  the  func- 
tion to  deal  with  all  beautiful  and  enjoyable  things. 
In  a  character  where  it  should  exist  as  the  chief  at- 
tribute, it  would  bestow  on  its  possessor  an  exquisite 
taste,  and  an  enviable  susceptibility  of  happiness. 
Beauty  would  be  his  life;  his  aspirations  would  all 
tend  toward  it ;  and,  allowing  his  frame  and  physical 
organs  to  be  in  consonance,  his  own  developments 
would  likewise  be  beautiful.  Such  a  man  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  sorrow  ;  nothing  with  strife  ;  noth- 
ing with  the  martyrdom  which,  in  an  infinite  variety 
of  shapes,  awaits  those  who  have  the  heart,  and  will, 
and  conscience,  to  fight  a  battle  with  the  world.  To 
these  heroic  tempers,  such  martyrdom  is  the  richest 


THE  GUEST.  135 

meed  in  the  world's  gift.  To  the  individual  before 
us,  it  could  only  be  a  grief,  intense  in  due  proportion 
with  the  severity  of  the  infliction.  He  had  no  right 
to  be  a  martyr ;  and,  beholding  him  so  fit  to  be  happy 
and  so  feeble  for  all  other  purposes,  a  generous,  strong, 
and  noble  spirit  would,  methinks,  have  been  ready  to 
sacrifice  what  little  enjoyment  it  might  have  planned 
for  itself,  —  it  would  have  flung  down  the  hopes,  so 
paltry  in  its  regard,  —  if  thereby  the  wintry  blasts  of 
our  rude  sphere  might  come  tempered  to  such  a  man. 

Not  to  speak  it  harshly  or  scornfully,  it  seemed  Clif- 
ford's nature  to  be  a  Sybarite.  It  was  perceptible, 
even  there,  in  the  dark  old  parlor,  in  the  inevitable 
polarity  with  which  his  eyes  were  attracted  towards 
the  quivering  play  of  sunbeams  through  the  shadowy 
foliage.  It  was  seen  in  his  appreciating  notice  of  the 
vase  of  flowers,  the  scent  of  which  he  inhaled  with  a 
zest  almost  peculiar  to  a  physical  organization  so  re- 
fined that  spiritual  ingredients  are  moulded  in  with  it. 
It  was  betrayed  in  the  unconscious  smile  with  which 
he  regarded  Phrebe,  whose  fresh  and  maidenly  figure 
was  both  sunshine  and  flowers,  —  their  essence,  in  a 
prettier  and  more  agreeable  mode  of  manifestation. 
Not  less  evident  was  this  love  and  necessity  for  the 
Beautiful,  in  the  instinctive  caution  with  which,  even 
so  soon,  his  eyes  turned  away  from  his  hostess,  and 
wandered  to  any  quarter  rather  than  come  back.  It 
was  Hepzibah's  misfortune,  —  not  Clifford's  fault. 
How  could  he,  —  so  yellow  as  she  was,  so  wrinkled, 
BO  sad  of  mien,  with  that  odd  uncouthness  of  a  turban 
on  her  head,  and  that  most  perverse  of  scowls  contort- 
ing her  brow,  —  how  could  he  love  to  gaze  at  her  ? 
But,  did  he  owe  her  no  affection  for  so  much  as  she 
bad  silently  given  ?  He  owed  her  nothing.  A  nature 


136       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

like  Clifford's  can  contract  no  debts  of  that  kind.  It 
is  —  we  say  it  without  censure,  nor  in  diminution  of 
the  claim  which  it  indefeasibly  possesses  on  beings  of 
another  mould  —  it  is  always  selfish  in  its  essence ;  and 
we  must  give  it  leave  to  be  so,  and  heap  up  our  heroio 
and  disinterested  love  upon  it  so  much  the  more,  with- 
out a  recompense.  Poor  Hepzibah  knew  this  truth,  or, 
at  least,  acted  on  the  instinct  of  it.  So  long  estranged 
from  what  was  lovely  as  Clifford  had  been,  she  re- 
joiced —  rejoiced,  though  with  a  present  sigh,  and  a 
secret  purpose  to  shed  tears  in  her  own  chamber  — 
that  he  had  brighter  objects  now  before  his  eyes  than 
her  aged  and  uncomely  features.  They  never  pos- 
sessed a  charm ;  and  if  they  had,  the  canker  of  her 
grief  for  him  would  long  since  have  destroyed  it. 

The  guest  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  Mingled  in 
his  countenance  with  a  dreamy  delight,  there  was  a 
troubled  look  of  effort  and  unrest.  He  was  seeking  to 
make  himself  more  fully  sensible  of  the  scene  around 
him ;  or,  perhaps,  dreading  it  to  be  a  dream,  or  a  play 
of  imagination,  was  vexing  the  fair  moment  with  a 
struggle  for  some  added  brilliancy  and  more  durable 
illusion. 

"  How  pleasant !  —  How  delightful !  "  he  murmured, 
but  not  as  if  addressing  any  one.  "  Will  it  last?  How 
balmy  the  atmosphere  through  that  open  window !  An 
open  window !  How  beautiful  that  play  of  sunshine  ! 
Those  flowers,  how  very  fragrant !  That  young  girl's 
face,  how  cheerful,  how  blooming  !  —  a  flower  with  the 
dew  on  it,  and  sunbeams  in  the  dew-drops  !  Ah  !  this 
must  be  all  a  dream  !  A  dream  !  A  dream  !  But  it 
has  quite  hidden  the  four  stone  walls  !  " 

Then  his  face  darkened,  as  if  the  shadow  of  a  cav- 
ern or  a  dungeon  had  come  over  it ;  there  was  no  more 


THE  GUEST.  137 

light  in  its  expression  than  might  have  come  through 
the  iron  grates  of  a  prison  window,  —  still  lessening, 
too,  as  if  he  were  sinking  farther  into  the  depths. 
Phrebe  (being  of  that  quickness  and  activity  of  tem- 
perament that  she  seldom  long  refrained  from  taking 
a  part,  and  generally  a  good  one,  in  what  was  go- 
ing forward)  now  felt  herself  moved  to  address  the 
stranger. 

"  Here  is  a  new  kind  of  rose,  which  I  found  this 
morning  in  the  garden,"  said  she,  choosing  a  small 
crimson  one  from  among  the  flowers  in  the  va&e. 
"  There  will  be  but  five  or  six  on  the  bush  this  sea- 
son. This  is  the  most  perfect  of  them  all ;  not  a 
speck  of  blight  or  mildew  in  it.  And  how  sweet  it  is  ! 
—  sweet  like  no  other  rose !  One  can  never  forget 
that  scent ! " 

"  Ah !  —  let  me  see  !  —  let  me  hold  it ! "  cried  the 
guest,  eagerly  seizing  the  flower,  which,  by  the  spell 
peculiar  to  remembered  odors,  brought  innumerable 
associations  along  with  the  fragrance  that  it  exhaled. 
"  Thank  you  !  This  has  done  me  good.  I  remember 
how  I  used  to  prize  this  flower,  —  long  ago,  I  suppose, 
very  long  ago !  —  or  was  it  only  yesterday  ?  It  makes 
me  feel  young  again  I  Am  I  young  ?  Either  this  re- 
membrance is  singularly  distinct,  or  this  consciousness 
strangely  dim  !  But  how  kind  of  the  fair  young  girl ! 
Thank  you !  Thank  you !  " 

The  favorable  excitement  derived  from  this  little 
crimson  rose  afforded  Clifford  the  brightest  moment 
which  he  enjoyed  at  the  breakfast-table.  It  might 
have  lasted  longer,  but  that  his  eyes  happened,  soon 
afterwards,  to  rest  on  the  face  of  the  old  Puritan,  who, 
out  of  his  dingy  frame  and  lustreless  canvas,  was  look- 
ing down  on  the  scene  like  a  ghost,  and  a  most  illr 


138      THE  HOUSE  OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

tempered  and  ungenial  one.  The  guest  made  an  im- 
patient gesture  of  the  hand,  and  addressed  Hepzibah 
with  what  might  easily  be  recognized  as  the  licensed  ir- 
ritability of  a  petted  member  of  the  family. 

"  Hepzibah  !  —  Hepzibah !  "  cried  he  with  no  little 
force  and  distinctness,  "  why  do  you  keep  that  odious 
picture  on  the  wall  ?  Yes,  yes  !  —  that  is  precisely 
your  taste !  I  have  told  you,  a  thousand  times,  that 
it  was  the  evil  genius  of  the  house !  —  my  evil  genius 
particularly !  Take  it  down,  at  once  !  " 

"  Dear  Clifford,"  said  Hepzibah,  sadly,  "  you  know 
it  cannot  be  !  " 

"  Then,  at  all  events,"  continued  he,  still  speaking 
with  some  energy,  "  pray  cover  it  with  a  crimson  cur- 
tain, broad  enough  to  hang  in  folds,  and  with  a  golden 
border  and  tassels.  I  cannot  bear  it !  It  must  not 
stare  me  in  the  face  !  " 

"  Yes,  dear  Clifford,  the  picture  shall  be  covered," 
said  Hepzibah,  soothingly.  "  There  is  a  crimson  cur- 
tain in  a  trunk  above  stairs,  —  a  little  faded  and 
moth-eaten,  I  'm  afraid,  —  but  Phoabe  and  I  will  do 
wonders  with  it." 

"This  very  day,  remember!"  said  he;  and  then 
added,  in  a  low,  self-communing  voice,  "  Why  should 
we  live  in  this  dismal  house  at  all  ?  Why  not  go  to 
the  South  of  France  ?  —  to  Italy  ?  —  Paris,  Naples, 
Venice,  Rome  ?  Hepzibah  will  say  we  have  not  the 
means.  A  droll  idea  that !  " 

He  smiled  to  himself,  and  threw  a  glance  of  fine 
sarcastic  meaning  towards  Hepzibah. 

But  the  several  moods  of  feeling,  faintly  as  they  were 
marked,  through  which  he  had  passed,  occurring  in 
so  brief  an  interval  of  time,  had  evidently  wearied  the 
stranger.  He  was  probably  accustomed  to  a  sad  monot 


THE  GUEST.  139 

ony  of  life,  not  so  much  flowing  in  a  stream,  however 
sluggish,  as  stagnating  in  a  pool  around  his  feet.  A 
slumberous  veil  diffused  itself  over  his  countenance, 
and  had  an  effect,  morally  speaking,  on  its  naturally 
delicate  and  elegant  outline,  like  that  which  a  brooding 
mist,  with  no  sunshine  in  it,  throws  over  the  features 
of  a  landscape.  He  appeared  to  become  grosser,  — 
almost  cloddish.  If  aught  of  interest  or  beauty  — 
even  ruined  beauty  —  had  heretofore  been  visible  in 
this  man,  the  beholder  might  now  begin  to  doubt  it, 
and  to  accuse  his  own  imagination  of  deluding  hiii, 
with  whatever  grace  had  flickered  over  that  visage, 
and  whatever  exquisite  lustre  had  gleamed  in  those 
filmy  eyes. 

Before  he  had  quite  sunken  away,  however,  the 
sharp  and  peevish  tinkle  of  the  shop-bell  made  itself 
audible.  Stinking  most  disagreeably  on  Clifford's  au- 
ditory organs  and  the  characteristic  sensibility  of  his 
nerves,  it  caused  him  to  start  upright  out  of  his  chair. 

"  Good  heavens,  Hepzibah !  what  horrible  disturb- 
ance have  we  now  in  the  house  ?  "  cried  he,  wreaking 
his  resentful  impatience  —  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
a  custom  of  old  —  on  the  one  person  in  the  world  that 
loved  him.  "  I  have  never  heard  such  a  hateful 
clamor !  Why  do  you  permit  it  ?  In  the  name  of  all 
dissonance,  what  can  it  be  ?  " 

It  was  very  remarkable  into  what  prominent  relief 
—  even  as  if  a  dim  picture  should  leap  suddenly  from 
its  canvas  —  Clifford's  character  was  thrown  by  this 
apparently  trifling  annoyance.  The  secret  was,  that 
an  individual  of  his  temper  can  always  be  pricked 
more  acutely  through  his  sense  of  the  beautiful  and 
harmonious  than  through  his  heart.  It  is  even  possi- 
ble —  for  similar  cases  have  often  happened  —  that  if 


Z40       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Clifford,  in  his  foregoing  life,  had  enjoyed  the  means 
of  cultivating  his  taste  to  its  utmost  perfectibility,  that 
subtile  attribute  might,  before  this  period,  have  com- 
pletely eaten  out  or  filed  away  his  affections.  Shall 
we  venture  to  pronounce,  therefore,  that  his  long  and 
black  calamity  may  not  have  had  a  redeeming  drop  of 
mercy  at  the  bottom  ? 

"  Dear  Clifford,  I  wish  I  could  keep  the  sound  from 
your  ears,"  said  Hepzibah,  patiently,  but  reddening 
with  a  painful  suffusion  of  shame.  "  It  is  very  disa- 
greeable even  to  me.  But,  do  you  know,  Clifford,  I 
have  something  to  tell  you  ?  This  ugly  noise,  —  pray 
run,  Phoebe,  and  see  who  is  there  !  —  this  naughty  lit- 
tle tinkle  is  nothing  but  our  shop-bell !  " 

"  Shop-bell !  "  repeated  Clifford,  with  a  bewildered 
stare. 

"  Yes,  our  shop-bell,"  said  Hepzibah,  a  certain  nat- 
ural dignity,  mingled  with  deep  emotion,  now  assert- 
ing itself  in  her  manner.  "  For  you  must  know,  dear- 
est Clifford,  that  we  are  very  poor.  And  there  was 
no  other  resource,  but  either  to  accept  assistance  from 
a  hand  that  I  would  push  aside  (and  so  would  you !) 
were  it  to  offer  bread  when  we  were  dying  for  it,  — 
no  help,  save  from  him,  or  else  to  earn  our  subsistence 
with  my  own  hands !  Alone,  I  might  have  been  con- 
tent to  starve.  But  you  were  to  be  given  back  to  me ! 
Do  you  think,  then,  dear  Clifford,"  added  she,  with  a 
wretched  smile,  "  that  I  have  brought  an  irretrievable 
disgrace  on  the  old  house,  by  opening  a  little  shop 
in  the  front  gable  ?  Our  great-great-grandfather  did 
the  same,  when  there  was  far  less  need!  Are  you 
ashamed  of  me  ?  " 

"  Shame !  Disgrace  !  Do  you  speak  these  words 
to  me,  Hepzibah  ?  "  said  Clifford,  — not  angrily,  how 


THE   GUEST.  141 

ever;  for  when  a  man's  spirit  has  been  thoroughly 
crushed,  he  may  be  peevish  at  small  offences,  but 
never  resentful  of  great  ones.  So  he  spoke  with  only 
a  grieved  emotion.  "  It  was  not  kind  to  say  so,  Hep- 
zibah !  What  shame  can  befall  me  now  ?  " 

And  then  the  unnerved  man  —  he  that  had  been 
born  for  enjoyment,  but  had  met  a  doom  so  very 
wretched  —  burst  into  a  woman's  passion  of  tears.  It 
was  but  of  brief  continuance,  however;  soon  leaving 
him  in  a  quiescent,  and,  to  judge  by  his  countenance, 
not  an  uncomfortable  state.  From  this  mood,  too,  he 
partially  rallied  for  an  instant,  and  looked  at  Hepzi- 
bah  with  a  smile,  the  keen,  half-derisory  purport  of 
which  was  a  puzzle  to  her. 

"  Are  we  so  very  poor,  Hepzibah  ?  "  said  he. 

Finally,  his  chair  being  deep  and  softly  cushioned, 
Clifford  fell  asleep.  Hearing  the  more  regular  rise 
and  fall  of  his  breath  (which,  however,  even  then,  in- 
stead of  being  strong  and  full,  had  a  feeble  kind  of 
tremor,  corresponding  with  the  lack  of  vigor  in  his 
character),  —  hearing  these  tokens  of  settled  slumber, 
Hepzibah  seized  the  opportunity  to  peruse  his  face 
more  attentively  than  she  had  yet  dared  to  do.  Her 
heart  melted  away  in  tears ;  her  prof  oundest  spirit 
sent  forth  a  moaning  voice,  low,  gentle,  but  inexpres- 
sibly sad.  In  this  depth  of  grief  and  pity  she  felt  that 
there  was  no  irreverence  in  gazing  at  his  altered,  ageds, 
faded,  ruined  face.  But  no  sooner  was  she  a  little  re- 
lieved than  her  conscience  smote  her  for  gazing  curi- 
ously at  him,  now  that  he  was  so  changed ;  and,  turn* 
ing  hastily  away,  Hepzibah  let  down  the  curtain  ovei 
the  sunny  window,  and  left  Clifford  to  slumber  there. 


VIIL 

THE  FTNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY. 

PH(EBE,  on  entering  the  shop,  beheld  there  the  al- 
ready familiar  face  of  the  little  devourer — if  we  can 
reckon  his  mighty  deeds  aright  —  of  Jim  Crow,  the 
elephant,  the  camel,  the  dromedaries,  and  the  locomo- 
tive. Having  expended  his  private  fortune,  on  the 
two  preceding  days,  in  the  purchase  of  the  above  un- 
heard-of luxuries,  the  young  gentleman's  present  er- 
rand was  on  the  part  of  his  mother,  in  quest  of  three 
eggs  and  half  a  pound  of  raisins.  These  articles 
Phffibe  accordingly  supplied,  and,  as  a  mark  of  grati- 
tude for  his  previous  patronage,  and  a  slight  super- 
added  morsel  after  breakfast,  put  likewise  into  his 
hand  a  whale  !  The  great  fish,  reversing  his  experi- 
ence with  the  prophet  of  Nineveh,  immediately  began 
his  progress  down  the  same  red  pathway  of  fate 
whither  so  varied  a  caravan  had  preceded  him.  This 
remarkable  urchin,  in  truth,  was  the  very  emblem  of 
old  Father  Time,  both  in  respect  of  his  all-devouring 
appetite  for  men  and  things,  and  because  he,  as  well 
as  Time,  after  ingulfing  thus  much  of  creation,  looked 
almost  as  youthful  as  if  he  had  been  just  that  moment 
made. 

After  partly  closing  the  door,  the  child  turned  back, 
and  mumbled  something  to  Phosbe,  which,  as  the 
whale  was  but  half  disposed  of,  she  could  not  perfectly 
understand. 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  143 

"What  did  you  say,  my  little  fellow  ?  "  asked  she. 

"Mother  wants  to  know,"  repeated  Ned  Higgins, 
more  distinctly,  "  how  Old  Maid  Pyncheon's  brother 
does  ?  Folks  say  he  has  got  home." 

"My  cousin  Hepzibah's  brother!  "  exclaimed  Phoebe, 
surprised  at  this  sudden  explanation  of  the  relationship 
between  Hepzibah  and  her  guest.  "  Her  brother  I 
And  where  can  he  have  been  ?  " 

The  little  boy  only  put  his  thumb  to  his  broad  snub- 
nose,  with  that  look  of  shrewdness  which  a  child,  spend- 
ing much  of  his  time  in  the  street,  so  soon  learns  to 
throw  over  his  features,  however  unintelligent  in  them- 
selves. Then  as  Phosbe  continued  to  gaze  at  him, 
without  answering  his  mother's  message,  he  took  his 
departure. 

As  the  child  went  down  the  steps,  a  gentleman  as- 
cended them,  and  made  his  entrance  into  the  shop. 
It  was  the  portly,  and,  had  it  possessed  the  advantage 
of  a  little  more  height,  would  have  been  the  stately  fig- 
ure of  a  man  considerably  in  the  decline  of  life,  dressed 
in  a  black  suit  of  some  thin  stuff,  resembling  broad- 
cloth as  closely  as  possible.  A  gold-headed  cane,  of 
rare  Oriental  wood,  added  materially  to  the  high  re- 
spectability of  his  aspect,  as  did  also  a  neckcloth  of  the 
utmost  snowy  purity,  and  the  conscientious  polish  of 
his  boots.  His  dark,  square  countenance,  with  its  al- 
most shaggy  depth  of  eyebrows,  was  naturally  impres- 
sive, and  would,  perhaps,  have  been  rather  stern,  had 
not  the  gentleman  considerately  taken  upon  himself  to 
mitigate  the  harsh  effect  by  a  look  of  exceeding  good- 
humor  and  benevolence.  Owing,  however,  to  a  some- 
what massive  accumulation  of  animal  substance  about 
the  lower  region  of  his  face,  the  look  was,  perhaps, 
unctuous,  rather  than  spiritual,  and  had,  so  to  speak, 


144       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

a  kind  of  fleshly  effulgence,  not  altogether  so  satisfac- 
tory as  he  doubtless  intended  it  to  be.  A  susceptible 
observer,  at  any  rate,  might  have  regarded  it  as  af- 
fording very  little  evidence  of  the  general  benignity  of 
soul  whereof  it  purported  to  be  the  outward  reflection. 
And  if  the  observer  chanced  to  be  ill-natured,  as  well 
as  acute  and  susceptible,  he  would  probably  suspect 
that  the  smile  on  the  gentleman's  face  was  a  good  deal 
akin  to  the  shine  on  his  boots,  and  that  each  must  have 
cost  him  and  his  boot-black,  respectively,  a  good  deal 
of  hard  labor  to  bring  out  and  preserve  them. 

As  the  stranger  entered  the  little  shop,  where  the 
projection  of  the  second  story  and  the  thick  foliage 
of  the  elm-tree,  as  well  as  the  commodities  at  the  win- 
dow, created  a  sort  of  gray  medium,  his  smile  grew  as 
intense  as  if  he  had  set  his  heart  on  counteracting 
the  whole  gloom  of  the  atmosphere  (besides  any  moral 
gloom  pertaining  to  Hepzibah  and  her  inmates)  by  the 
unassisted  light  of  his  countenance.  On  perceiving  a 
young  rose-bud  of  a  girl,  instead  of  the  gaunt  pres- 
ence of  the  old  maid,  a  look  of  surprise  was  manifest. 
He  at  first  knit  his  brows ;  then  smiled  with  more  unc- 
tuous benignity  than  ever. 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is  !  "  said  he,  in  a  deep  voice,  — 
a  voice  which,  had  it  come  from  the  throat  of  an  un- 
cultivated man,  would  have  been  gruff,  but,  by  dint  of 
careful  training,  was  now  sufficiently  agreeable,  —  "I 
was  not  aware  that  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon  had  com- 
menced business  under  such  favorable  auspices.  You 
are  her  assistant,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  am,"  answered  Phrebe,  and  added,  with 
a  little  air  of  lady-like  assumption  (for,  civil  as  the 
gentleman  was,  he  evidently  took  her  to  be  a  young 
person  serving  for  wages),  "  I  am  a  cousin  of 
Hepzibah,  on  a  visit  to  her." 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF   TO-DAY.  145 

**  Her  cousin  ?  —  and  from  the  country  ?  Pray  par. 
don  me,  then,"  said  the  gentleman,  bowing  and  smil- 
ing, as  Phoebe  never  had  .been  bowed  to  nor  smiled  on 
before  ;  "  in  that  case,  we  must  be  better  acquainted  ; 
for,  unless  I  am  sadly  mistaken,  you  are  my  own  little 
kinswoman  likewise !  Let  me  see,  —  Mary  ?  —  Dolly  ? 
—  Phoebe  ?  —  yes,  Phoebe  is  the  name !  Is  it  possible 
that  you  are  Phoebe  Pyncheon,  only  child  of  my  dear 
cousin  and  classmate,  Arthur?  Ah,  I  see  your  father 
now,  about  your  mouth  !  Yes,  yes !  we  must  be  better 
acquainted !  I  am  your  kinsman,  my  dear.  Surely 
you  must  have  heard  of  Judge  Pyncheon  ?  " 

As  Phoebe  courtesied  in  reply,  the  Judge  bent  for- 
ward, with  the  pardonable  and  even  praiseworthy  pur- 
pose —  considering  the  nearness  of  blood,  and  the  dif- 
ference of  age  — of  bestowing  on  his  young  relative  a 
kiss  of  acknowledged  kindred  and  natural  affection. 
Unfortunately  (without  design,  or  only  with  such  in- 
stinctive design  as  gives  no  account  of  itself  to  the 
intellect)  Phoebe,  just  at  the  critical  moment,  drew 
back ;  so  that  her  highly  respectable  kinsman,  with  his 
body  bent  over  the  counter,  and  his  lips  protruded, 
was  betrayed  into  the  rather  absurd  predicament  of 
kissing  the  empty  air.  It  was  a  modern  parallel  to 
the  case  of  Ixion  embracing  a  cloud,  and  was  so  much 
the  more  ridiculous,  as  the  Judge  prided  himself  on 
eschewing  all  airy  matter,  and  never  mistaking  a 
shadow  for  a  substance.  The  truth  was,  —  and  it  is 
Phoebe's  only  excuse,  —  that,  although  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon's  glowing  benignity  might  not  be  absolutely  un- 
pleasant to  the  feminine  beholder,  with  the  width  of  a 
street,  or  even  an  ordinary-sized  room,  interposed  be- 
tween, yet  it  became  quite  too  intense,  when  this  dark, 

full-fed  physiognomy  (so   roughly  bearded,  too,  that 
VOL.  in.  10 


146       THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

no  razor  could  ever  make  it  smooth)  sought  to  bring  it 
self  into  actual  contact  with  the  object  of  its  regards. 
The  man,  the  sex,  somehow  or  other,  was  entirely  too 
prominent  in  the  Judge's  demonstrations  of  that  sort. 
Phoebe's  eyes  sank,  and,  without  knowing  why,  she  felt 
herself  blushing  deeply  under  his  look.  Yet  she  had 
been  kissed  before,  and  without  any  particular  squeam- 
ishness,  by  perhaps  half  a  dozen  different  cousins, 
younger  as  well  as  older  than  this  dark-browed,  grisly- 
bearded,  white-neck-clothed,  and  unctuously-benevolent 
Judge  !  Then,  why  not  by  him  ? 

On  raising  her  eyes,  Phoebe  was  startled  by  the 
change  in  Judge  Pyncheon's  face.  It  was  quite  as 
striking,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  scale,  as  that 
betwixt  a  landscape  under  a  broad  sunshine  and  just 
before  a  thunder-storm ;  not  that  it  had  the  passionate 
intensity  of  the  latter  aspect,  but  was  cold,  hard,  im- 
mitigable, like  a  day-long  brooding  cloud. 

"  Dear  me  I  what  is  to  be  done  now  ?  "  thought  the 
country-girl  to  herself.  "  He  looks  as  if  there  were 
nothing  softer  in  him  than  a  rock,  nor  milder  than  the 
east  wind  !  I  meant  no  harm !  Since  he  is  really  my 
cousin,  I  would  have  let  him  kiss  me,  if  I  could  !  " 

Then,  all  at  once,  it  struck  Phoebe  that  this  very 
Judge  Pyncheon  was  the  original  of  the  miniature 
which  the  daguerreotypist  had  shown  her  in  the  gar- 
den, and  that  the  hard,  stern,  relentless  look,  now  on 
his  face,  was  the  same  that  the  sun  had  so  inflexibly 
persisted  in  bringing  out.  Was  it,  therefore,  no  mo- 
mentary mood,  but,  however  skilfully  concealed,  the 
settled  temper  of  his  life  ?  And  not  merely  so,  but 
was  it  hereditary  in  him,  and  transmitted  down,  as 
a  precious  heirloom,  from  that  bearded  ancestor,  in 
whose  picture  both  the  expression,  and,  to  a  singular 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  147 

degree,  the  features  of  the  modern  Judge  were  shown 
as  by  a  kind  of  prophecy  ?  A  deeper  philosopher  than 
Phoebe  might  have  found  something  very  terrible  in 
this  idea.  It  implied  that  the  weaknesses  and  defects, 
the  bad  passions,  the  mean  tendencies,  and  the  moral 
diseases  which  lead  to  crime  are  handed  down  from 
one  generation  to  another,  by  a  far  surer  process  of 
transmission  than  human  law  has  been  able  to  estab- 
lish in  respect  to  the  riches  and  honors  which  it  seeks 
to  entail  upon  posterity. 

But,  as  it  happened,  scarcely  had  Phoebe's  eyes 
rested  again  on  the  Judge's  countenance  than  all  its 
ugly  sternness  vanished  ;  and  she  found  herself  quite 
overpowered  by  the  sultry,  dog-day  heat,  as  it  were, 
of  benevolence,  which  this  excellent  man  diffused  out 
of  his  great  heart  into  the  surrounding  atmosphere, 
—  very  much  like  a  serpent,  which,  as  a  preliminary 
to  fascination,  is  said  to  fill  the  air  with  his  peculiar 
odor. 

"  I  like  that,  Cousin  Phoebe ! "  cried  he,  with  an 
emphatic  nod  of  approbation.  "I  like  it  much,  my 
little  cousin !  You  are  a  good  child,  and  know  how 
to  take  care  of  yourself.  A  young  girl  —  especially 
if  she  be  a  very  pretty  one  —  can  never  be  too  chary 
of  her  lips." 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  said  Phoebe,  trying  to  laugh  the  mat 
ter  off,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  be  unkind." 

Nevertheless,  whether  or  no  it  were  entirely  owing 
to  the  inauspicious  commencement  of  their  acquaint- 
ance, she  still  acted  under  a  certain  reserve,  which 
was  by  no  means  customary  to  her  frank  and  genial 
nature.  The  fantasy  would  not  quit  her,  that  the 
original  Puritan,  of  whom  she  had  heard  so  many 
sombre  traditions,  —  the  progenitor  of  the  whole  race 


148      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

of  New  England  Pyncheons,  the  founder  of  the  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  who  had  died  so  strangely 
in  it,  —  had  now  stept  into  the  shop.  In  these  days  of 
off-hand  equipment,  the  matter  was  easily  enough  ar- 
ranged. On  his  arrival  from  the  other  world,  he  had 
merely  found  it  necessary  to  spend  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  at  a  barber's,  who  had  trimmed  down  the  Puri- 
tan's full  beard  into  a  pair  of  grizzled  whiskers,  then, 
patronizing  a  ready-made  clothing  establishment,  he 
had  exchanged  his  velvet  doublet  and  sable  cloak, 
with  the  richly  worked  band  under  his  chin,  for  a 
white  collar  and  cravat,  coat,  vest,  and  pantaloons; 
and  lastly,  putting  aside  his  steel-hilted  broadsword  to 
take  up  a  gold-headed  cane,  the  Colonel  Pyncheon  of 
two  centuries  ago  steps  forward  as  the  Judge  of  the 
passing  moment ! 

Of  course,  Phoebe  was  far  too  sensible  a  girl  to  en- 
tertain this  idea  in  any  other  way  than  as  matter  for  a 
smile.  Possibly,  also,  could  the  two  personages  have 
stood  together  before  her  eye,  many  points  of  differ- 
ence would  have  been  perceptible,  and  perhaps  only  a 
general  resemblance.  The  long  lapse  of  intervening 
years,  in  a  climate  so  unlike  that  which  had  fostered  the 
ancestral  Englishman,  must  inevitably  have  wrought 
important  changes  in  the  physical  system  of  his  de- 
scendant. The  Judge's  volume  of  muscle  could  hardly 
be  the  same  as  the  Colonel's  ;  there  was  undoubtedly 
less  beef  in  him.  Though  looked  upon  as  a  weighty 
man  among  his  contemporaries  in  respect  of  animal 
substance,  and  as  favored  with  a  remarkable  degree  of 
fundamental  development,  well  adapting  him  for  the 
judicial  bench,  we  conceive  that  the  modern  Judge 
Pyncheon,  if  weighed  in  the  same  balance  with  hi3 
ancestor,  would  have  required  at  least  an  old-fashioned 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  149 

fifty-six  to  keep  the  scale  in  equilibrio.  Then  the 
Judge's  face  had  lost  the  ruddy  English  hue  that 
showed  its  warmth  through  all  the  duskiness  of  the 
Colonel's  weather-beaten  cheek,  and  had  taken  a  sal- 
low shade,  the  established  complexion  of  his  country- 
men. If  we  mistake  not,  moreover,  a  certain  quality 
of  nervousness  had  become  more  or  less  manifest,  even 
in  so  solid  a  specimen  of  Puritan  descent  as  the  gen« 
tleman  now  under  discussion.  As  one  of  its  effects, 
it  bestowed  on  his  countenance  a  quicker  mobility 
than  the  old  Englishman's  had  possessed,  and  keener 
vivacity,  but  at  the  expense  of  a  sturdier  something, 
on  which  these  acute  endowments  seemed  to  act  like 
dissolving  acids.  This  process,  for  aught  we  know, 
may  belong  to  the  great  system  of  human  progress, 
which,  with  every  ascending  footstep,  as  it  diminishes 
the  necessity  for  animal  force,  may  be  destined  grad- 
ually to  spiritualize  us,  by  refining  away  our  grosser 
attributes  of  body.  If  so,  Judge  Pyncheon  could  en- 
dure a  century  or  two  more  of  such  refinement  as  well 
as  most  other  men. 

The  similarity,  intellectual  and  moral,  between  the 
Judge  and  his  ancestor  appears  to  have  been  at  least 
as  strong  as  the  resemblance  of  mien  and  feature 
would  afford  reason  to  anticipate.  In  old  Colonel 
Pyncheon's  funeral  discourse  the  clergyman  absolutely 
canonized  his  deceased  parishioner,  and  opening,  as 
it  were,  a  vista  through  the  roof  of  the  church,  and 
thence  through  the  firmament  above,  showed  him 
seated,  harp  in  hand,  among  the  crowned  choristers 
of  the  spiritual  world.  On  his  tombstone,  too,  the 
record  is  highly  eulogistic ;  nor  does  history,  so  far 
as  he  holds  a  place  upon  its  page,  assail  the  consist- 
ency and  uprightness  of  his  character.  So  also,  as 


160   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

regards  the  Judge  Pyncheon  of  to-day,  neither  clergy- 
man,  nor  legal  critic,  nor  inscriber  of  tombstones,  nor 
historian  of  general  or  local  politics,  would  venture 
a  word  against  this  eminent  person's  sincerity  as  a 
Christian,  or  respectability  as  a  man,  or  integrity  as 
a  judge,  or  courage  and  faithfulness  as  the  often-tried 
representative  of  his  political  party.  But,  besides 
these  cold,  formal,  and  empty  words  of  the  chisel  that 
inscribes,  the  voice  that  speaks,  and  the  pen  that 
writes,  for  the  public  eye  and  for  distant  tune,  —  and 
which  inevitably  lose  much  of  their  truth  and  freedom 
by  the  fatal  consciousness  of  so  doing,  —  there  were 
traditions  about  the  ancestor,  and  private  diurnal  gos- 
sip about  the  Judge,  remarkably  accordant  in  their 
testimony.  It  is  often  instructive  to  take  the  worn- 
an's,  the  private  and  domestic,  view  of  a  public  man  ; 
nor  can  anything  be  more  curious  than  the  vast  dis- 
crepancy between  portraits  intended  for  engraving  and 
the  pencil-sketches  that  pass  from  hand  to  hand  be- 
hind the  original's  back. 

For  example :  tradition  affirmed  that  the  Puritan 
had  been  greedy  of  wealth ;  the  Judge,  too,  with  all 
the  show  of  liberal  expenditure,  was  said  to  be  as  close- 
fisted  as  if  his  gripe  were  of  iron.  The  ancestor  had 
clothed  himself  in  a  grim  assumption  of  kindliness,  a 
rough  heartiness  of  word  and  manner,  which  most 
people  took  to  be  the  genuine  warmth  of  nature, 
making  its  way  through  the  thick  and  inflexible  hide 
of  a  manly  character.  His  descendant,  in  compliance 
with  the  requirements  of  a  nicer  age,  had  etherealized 
this  rude  benevolence  into  that  broad  benignity  of 
smile,  wherewith  he  shone  like  a  noonday  sun  along 
the  streets,  or  glowed  like  a  household  fire  in  the 
drawing-rooms  of  his  private  acquaintance.  The  Pur 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  151 

ritan  —  if  not  belied  by  some  singular  stories,  mur- 
mured, even  at  this  day,  under  the  narrator's  breath 
—  had  fallen  into  certain  transgressions  to  which  men 
of  his  great  animal  development,  whatever  their  faith 
or  principles,  must  continue  liable,  until  they  put  off 
impurity,  along  with  the  gross  earthly  substance  that 
involves  it.  We  must  not  stain  our  page  with  any 
contemporary  scandal,  to  a  similar  purport,  that  may 
have  been  whispered  against  the  Judge.  The  Puri- 
tan, again,  an  autocrat  in  his  own  household,  had 
worn  out  three  wives,  and,  merely  by  the  remorseless 
weight  and  hardness  of  his  character  in  the  conjugal 
relation,  had  sent  them,  one  after  another,  broken- 
hearted, to  their  graves.  Here  the  parallel,  in  some 
sort,  fails.  The  Judge  had  wedded  but  a  single  wife, 
and  lost  her  in  the  third  or  fourth  year  of  their  mar- 
riage. There  was  a  fable,  however,  —  for  such  we 
choose  to  consider  it,  though,  not  impossibly,  typical 
of  Judge  Pyncheon's  marital  deportment,  —  that  the 
lady  got  her  death-blow  in  the  honeymoon,  and  never 
smiled  again,  because  her  husband  compelled  her  to 
serve  him  with  coffee  every  morning  at  his  bedside,  in 
token  of  fealty  to  her  liege-lord  and  master. 

But  it  is  too  fruitful  a  subject,  this  of  hereditary 
resemblances, —  the  frequent  recurrence  of  which,  in  a 
direct  line,  is  truly  unaccountable,  when  we  consider 
how  large  an  accumulation  of  ancestry  lies  behind 
every  man  at  the  distance  of  one  or  two  centuries. 
We  shall  only  add,  therefore,  that  the  Puritan  —  so, 
at  least,  says  chimney-corner  tradition,  which  often 
preserves  traits  of  character  with  marvellous  fidelity  — 
was  bold,  imperious,  relentless,  crafty  ;  laying  his  pur- 
poses deep,  and  following  them  out  with  an  inveteracy 
of  pursuit  that  knew  neither  rest  nor  conscience; 


152       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

trampling  on  the  weak,  and,  when  essential  to  his  ends, 
doing  his  utmost  to  beat  down  the  strong.  Whether 
the  Judge  in  any  degree  resembled  him  the  further 
progress  of  our  narrative  may  show. 

Scarcely  any  of  the  items  in  the  above-drawn  par- 
allel occurred  to  Phcebe,  whose  country  birth  and  res- 
idence, in  truth,  had  left  her  pitifully  ignorant  of  most 
of  the  family  traditions,  which  lingered,  like  cobwebs 
and  incrustations  of  smoke,  about  the  rooms  and  chim- 
ney-corners of  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.  Yet 
there  was  a  circumstance,  very  trifling  in  itself,  which 
impressed  her  with  an  odd  degree  of  horror.  She  had 
heard  of  the  anathema  flung  by  Maule,  the  executed 
wizard,  against  Colonel  Pyncheon  and  his  posterity, 
—  that  God  would  give  them  blood  to  drink,  —  and 
likewise  of  the  popular  notion,  that  this  miraculous 
blood  might  now  and  then  be  heard  gurgling  in  their 
throats.  The  latter  scandal  —  as  became  a  person  of 
sense,  and,  more  especially,  a  member  of  the  Pyncheon 
family  —  Phoabe  had  set  down  for  the  absurdity  which 
it  unquestionably  was.  But  ancient  superstitions,  after 
being  steeped  in  human  hearts  and  embodied  in  human 
breath,  and  passing  from  lip  to  ear  in  manifold  rep- 
etition, through  a  series  of  generations,  become  im- 
bued with  an  effect  of  homely  truth.  The  smoke  of 
the  domestic  hearth  has  scented  them  through  and 
through.  By  long  transmission  among  household 
facts,  they  grow  to  look  like  them,  and  have  such  a 
familiar  way  of  making  themselves  at  home  that  their 
influence  is  usually  greater  than  we  suspect.  Thus  it 
happened,  that  when  Pho3be  heard  a  certain  noise  in 
Judge  Pyncheon's  throat,  —  rather  habitual  with  him, 
not  altogether  voluntary,  yet  indicative  of  nothing,  un- 
less it  were  a  slight  bronchial  complaint,  or,  as  some 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  153 

people  hinted,  an  apoplectic  symptom,  —  when  the 
girl  heard  this  queer  and  awkward  ingurgitation 
(which  the  writer  never  did  hear,  and  therefore  can- 
not describe),  she,  very  foolishly,  started,  and  clasped 
her  hands. 

Of  course,  it  was  exceedingly  ridiculous  in  Phrebe  to 
be  discomposed  by  such  a  trifle,  and  still  more  unpar- 
donable to  show  her  discomposure  to  the  individual 
most  concerned  in  it.  But  the  incident  chimed  in  so 
oddly  with  her  previous  fancies  about  the  Colonel  and 
the  Judge,  that,  for  the  moment,  it  seemed  quite  to 
mingle  their  identity. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  young  woman  ?  " 
said  Judge  Pyncheon,  giving  her  one  of  his  harsh 
looks.  "Are  you  afraid  of  anything?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  sir,  —  nothing  in  the  world  !  "  an- 
swered Phffibe,  with  a  little  laugh  of  vexation  at  her- 
self. "  But  perhaps  you  wish  to  speak  with  my  cousin 
Hepzibah.  ShaU  I  caU  her  ?  " 

"  Stay  a  moment,  if  you  please,"  said  the  Judge, 
again  beaming  sunshine  out  of  his  face.  "  You  seem 
to  be  a  little  nervous  this  morning.  The  town  air, 
Cousin  Phffibe,  does  not  agree  with  your  good,  whole- 
some country  habits.  Or  has  anything  happened  to 
disturb  you  ?  —  anything  remarkable  in  Cousin  Hep- 
zibah's  family  ?  —  An  arrival,  eh  ?  I  thought  so  ! 
No  wonder  you  are  out  of  sorts,  my  little  cousin.  To 
be  an  inmate  with  such  a  guest  may  well  startle  an 
innocent  young  girl ! " 

"  You  quite  puzzle  me,  sir,"  replied  Phrebe,  gazing 
inquiringly  at  the  Judge.  "There  is  no  frightful 
guest  in  the  house,  but  only  a  poor,  gentle,  childlike 
man,  whom  I  believe  to  be  Cousin  Hepzibah's  brother. 
I  am  afraid  (but  you,  sir,  will  know  better  than  I) 


154      THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

that  he  is  not  quite  in  his  sound  senses ;  but  so  mild 
and  quiet  he  seems  to  be,  that  a  mother  might  trust 
her  baby  with  him ;  and  I  think  he  would  play  with 
the  baby  as  if  he  were  only  a  few  years  older  than  it* 
self.  He  startle  me  !  —  Oh,  no  indeed !  " 

" 1  rejoice  to  hear  so  favorable  and  so  ingenuous  ar 
account  of  my  cousin  Clifford,"  said  the  benevolem 
Judge.  "  Many  years  ago,  when  we  were  boys  and 
young  men  together,  I  had  a  great  affection  for  him, 
and  still  feel  a  tender  interest  in  all  his  concerns. 
You,  say,  Cousin  Phoebe,  he  appears  to  be  weak- 
minded.  Heaven  grant  him  at  least  enough  of  intel- 
lect to  repent  of  his  past  sins !  " 

"Nobody,  I  fancy,"  observed  Phoebe,  "  can  have 
fewer  to  repent  of.** 

"  And  is  it  possible,  my  dear,"  rejoined  the  Judge, 
with  a  commiserating  look,  "that  you  have  never 
heard  of  Clifford  Pyncheon  ?  —  that  you  know  noth- 
ing of  his  history  ?  Well,  it  is  all  right ;  and  your 
mother  has  shown  a  very  proper  regard  for  the  good 
name  of  the  family  with  which  she  connected  herself. 
Believe  the  best  you  can  of  this  unfortunate  person, 
and  hope  the  best !  It  is  a  rule  which  Christians 
should  always  follow,  in  their  judgments  of  one  an- 
other ;  and  especially  is  it  right  and  wise  among  near 
relatives,  whose  characters  have  necessarily  a  degree 
of  mutual  dependence.  But  is  Clifford  in  the  parlor  ? 
I  will  just  step  in  and  see." 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  I  had  better  call  my  cousin  Hepzk 
bah,"  said  Phoebe ;  hardly  knowing,  however,  whether 
she  ought  to  obstruct  the  entrance  of  so  affectionate  a 
kinsman  into  the  private  regions  of  the  house.  "  Her 
brother  seemed  to  be  just  falling  asleep  after  break- 
fast ;  and  I  am  sure  she  would  not  like  him  to  be  disr 
turbed.  Pray  sir,  let  me  give  her  notice  I " 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  155 

But  the  Judge  showed  a  singular  determination  to 
enter  unannounced ;  and  as  Phoebe,  with  the  vivacity 
of  a  person  whose  movements  unconsciously  answer  to 
her  thoughts,  had  stepped  towards  the  door,  he  used 
little  or  no  ceremony  in  putting  her  aside. 

"  No,  no,  Miss  Phoebe  !  "  said  Judge  Pyncheon,  in  a 
voice  as  deep  as  a  thunder-growl,  and  with  a  frown  as 
black  as  the  cloud  whence  it  issues.  "  Stay  you  here ! 
I  know  the  house,  and  know  my  cousin  Hepzibah,  and 
know  her  brother  Clifford  likewise !  —  nor  need  my 
little  country  cousin  put  herself  to  the  trouble  of  an- 
nouncing me  !  "  —  in  these  latter  words,  by  the  by, 
there  were  symptoms  of  a  change  from  his  sudden 
harshness  into  his  previous  benignity  of  manner.  "  I 
am  at  home  here,  Phoebe,  you  must  recollect,  and  you 
are  the  stranger.  I  will  just  step  in,  therefore,  and 
see  for  myself  how  Clifford  is,  and  assure  him  and 
Hepzibah  of  my  kindly  feelings  and  best  wishes.  It 
is  right,  at  this  juncture,  that  they  should  both  hear 
from  my  own  lips  how  much  I  desire  to  serve  them. 
Ha !  here  is  Hepzibah  herself  !  " 

Such  was  the  case.  The  vibrations  of  the  Judge's 
voice  had  reached  the  old  gentlewoman  in  the  parlor, 
where  she  sat,  with  face  averted,  waiting  on  her 
brother's  slumber.  She  now  issued  forth,  as  would 
appear,  to  defend  the  entrance,  looking,  we  must 
needs  say,  amazingly  like  the  dragon  which,  in  fairy 
tales,  is  wont  to  be  the  guardian  over  an  enchanted 
beauty.  The  habitual  scowl  of  her  brow  was,  undeni- 
ably, too  fierce,  at  this  moment,  to  pass  itself  off  on 
the  innocent  score  of  near-sightedness ;  and  it  was 
bent  on  Judge  Pyncheon  in  a  way  that  seemed  to  con- 
found,  if  not  alarm  him,  so  inadequately  had  he  esti« 
mated  the  moral  force  of  a  deeply  grounded  antipathy. 


156       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

She  made  a  repelling  gesture  with  her  hand,  and 
stood  a  perfect  picture  of  prohibition,  at  full  length, 
in  the  dark  frame  of  the  doorway.  But  we  must  be- 
tray Hepzibah's  secret,  and  confess  that  the  native 
timorousness  of  her  character  even  now  developed 
itself  in  a  quick  tremor,  which,  to  her  own  perception, 
set  each  of  her  joints  at  variance  with  its  fellows. 

Possibly,  the  Judge  was  aware  how  little  true  hardi- 
hood lay  behind  Hepzibah's  formidable  front.  At  any 
rate,  being  a  gentleman  of  steady  nerves,  he  soon  re- 
covered himself,  and  failed  not  to  approach  his  cousin 
with  outstretched  hand  ;  adopting  the  sensible  precau- 
tion, however,  to  cover  his  advance  with  a  smile,  so 
broad  and  sultry,  that,  had  it  been  only  half  as  warm 
as  it  looked,  a  trellis  of  grapes  might  at  once  have 
turned  purple  under  its  summer-like  exposure.  It 
may  have  been  his  purpose,  indeed,  to  melt  poor  Hep- 
zibah  on  the  spot,  as  if  she  were  a  figure  of  yellow 
wax. 

"  Hepzibah,  my  beloved  cousin,  I  am  rejoiced ! " 
exclaimed  the  Judge,  most  emphatically.  "Now,  at 
length,  you  have  something  to  live  for.  Yes,  and  all 
of  us,  let  me  say,  your  friends  and  kindred,  have  more 
to  live  for  than  we  had  yesterday.  I  have  lost  no  time 
in  hastening  to  offer  any  assistance  in  my  power 
towards  making  Clifford  comfortable.  He  belongs  to 
us  all.  I  know  how  much  he  requires,  —  how  much 
he  used  to  require,  —  with  his  delicate  taste,  and 
his  love  of  the  beautiful.  Anything  in  my  house,  — 
pictures,  books,  wine,  luxuries  of  the  table,  —  he  may 
command  them  all !  It  would  afford  me  most  heart- 
felt gratification  to  see  him !  Shall  I  step  in,  this 
moment  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Hepzibah,  her  voice  quivering  to* 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  157 

painfully  to  allow  of  many  words.     "  He  cannot  see 
visitors ! " 

"  A  visitor,  my  dear  cousin !  —  do  you  call  me  so  ?  " 
cried  the  Judge,  whose  sensibility,  it  seems,  was  hurt 
by  the  coldness  of  the  phrase.  "  Nay,  then,  let  me  be 
Clifford's  host,  and  your  own  likewise.  Come  at  once 
to  my  house.  The  country  air,  and  all  the  conven- 
iences —  I  may  say  luxuries  —  that  I  have  gathered 
about  me,  will  do  wonders  for  him.  And  you  and  I, 
dear  Hepzibah,  will  consult  together,  and  watch  to- 
gether, and  labor  together,  to  make  our  dear  Clifford 
happy.  Come !  why  should  we  make  more  words 
about  what  is  both  a  duty  and  a  pleasure  on  my  part  °t 
Come  to  me  at  once  !  " 

On  hearing  these  so  hospitable  offers,  and  such  gen- 
erous recognition  of  the  claims  of  kindred,  Phoebe  felt 
very  much  in  the  mood  of  running  up  to  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon,  and  giving  him,  of  her  Own  accord,  the  kiss 
from  which  she  had  so  recently  shrunk  away.  It  was 
quite  otherwise  with  Hepzibah;  the  Judge's  smile 
seemed  to  operate  on  her  acerbity  of  heart  like  sun- 
shine upon  vinegar,  making  it  ten  times  sourer  than 
ever. 

"Clifford,"  said  she,  —  still  too  agitated  to  utter 
more  than  an  abrupt  sentence,  — "  Clifford  has  a 
home  here ! " 

"  May  Heaven  forgive  you,  Hepzibah,"  said  Judge 
Pyncheon,  —  reverently  lifting  his  eyes  towards  that 
high  court  of  equity  to  which  he  appealed,  —  "if  you 
suffer  any  ancient  prejudice  or  animosity  to  weigh  with 
you  in  this  matter !  I  stand  here  with  an  open  heart, 
willing  and  anxious  to  receive  yourself  and  Clifford 
into  it.  Do  not  refuse  my  good  offices,  —  my  earnest 
propositions  for  your  welfare !  They  are  such,  in  all 


158   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

respects,  as  it  behooves  your  nearest  kinsman  to  make, 
It  will  be  a  heavy  responsibility,  cousin,  if  you  confine 
your  brother  to  this  dismal  house  and  stifled  air,  when 
the  delightful  freedom  of  my  country  -  seat  is  at  his 
command." 

"  It  would  never  suit  Clifford,"  said  Hepzibah,  as 
briefly  as  before. 

"  Woman !  "  broke  forth  the  Judge,  giving  way  to 
his  resentment,  "  what  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? 
Have  you  other  resources?  Nay,  I  suspected  as 
much !  Take  care,  Hepzibah,  take  care !  Clifford  is 
on  the  brink  of  as  black  a  ruin  as  ever  befell  him 
yet!  But  why  do  I  talk  with  you,  woman  as  you 
are  ?  Make  way !  —  I  must  see  Clifford !  " 

Hepzibah  spread  out  her  gaunt  figure  across  the 
door,  and  seemed  really  to  increase  in  bulk ;  looking 
the  more  terrible,  also,  because  there  was  so  much  ter- 
ror and  agitation  in  her  heart.  But  Judge  Pyncheon's 
evident  purpose  of  forcing  a  passage  was  interrupted 
by  a  voice  from  the  inner  room ;  a  weak,  tremulous, 
wailing  voice,  indicating  helpless  alarm,  with  no  more 
energy  for  self-defence  than  belongs  to  a  frightened 
infant. 

"  Hepzibah,  Hepzibah !  "  cried  the  voice ;  "  go  down 
on  your  knees  to  him !  Kiss  his  feet !  Entreat  him 
not  to  come  in !  Oh,  let  him  have  mercy  on  me  I 
Mercy !  —  mercy !  " 

For  the  instant,  it  appeared  doubtful  whether  it 
were  not  the  Judge's  resolute  purpose  to  set  Hepzibah 
aside,  and  step  across  the  threshold  into  the  parlor, 
whence  issued  that  broken  and  miserable  murmur  of 
entreaty.  It  was  not  pity  that  restrained  him,  for,  at 
the  first  sound  of  the  enfeebled  voice,  a  red  fire  kin- 
dled in  his  eyes,  and  he  made  a  quick  pace  forward. 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY. 

with  something  inexpressibly  fierce  and  grim  darken- 
ing forth,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  whole  man.  To  know 
Judge  Pyncheon,  was  to  see  him  at  that  moment. 
After  such  a  revelation,  let  him  smile  with  what  sul- 
triness he  would,  he  could  much  sooner  turn  grapes 
purple,  or  pumpkins  yellow,  than  melt  the  iron- 
branded  impression  out  of  the  beholder's  memory. 
And  it  rendered  his  aspect  not  the  less,  but  more 
frightful,  that  it  seemed  not  to  express  wrath  or 
hatred,  but  a  certain  hot  fellness  of  purpose,  which 
annihilated  everything  but  itself. 

Yet,  after  all,  are  we  not  slandering  an  excellent 
and  amiable  man  ?  Look  at  the  Judge  now !  He  is 
apparently  conscious  of  having  erred,  in  too  energeti- 
cally pressing  his  deeds  of  loving-kindness  on  persons 
unable  to  appreciate  them.  He  will  await  their  better 
mood,  and  hold  himself  as  ready  to  assist  them  then 
as  at  this  moment.  As  he  draws  back  from  the  door, 
an  all-comprehensive  benignity  blazes  from  his  visage, 
indicating  that  he  gathers  Hepzibah,  little  Phoebe,  and 
the  invisible  Clifford,  all  three,  together  with  the 
whole  world  besides,  into  his  immense  heart,  and 
gives  them  a  warm  bath  in  its  flood  of  affection. 

"  You  do  me  great  wrong,  dear  Cousin  Hepzibah ! " 
said  he,  first  kindly  offering  her  his  hand,  and  then 
drawing  on  his  glove  preparatory  to  departure.  "  Very 
great  wrong !  But  I  forgive  it,  and  will  study  to  make 
you  think  better  of  me.  Of  course,  our  poor  Clifford 
being  in  so  unhappy  a  state  of  mind,  I  cannot  think 
of  urging  an  interview  at  present.  But  I  shall  watch 
over  his  welfare  as  if  he  were  my  own  beloved  brother; 
nor  do  I  at  all  despair,  my  dear  cousin,  of  constrain' 
ing  both  him  and  you  to  acknowledge  your  injustice. 
When  that  shall  happen,  I  desire  no  other  revenga 


160     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

than  your  acceptance  of  the  best  offices  in  my  powei 
to  do  you." 

With  a  bow  to  Hepzibah,  and  a  degree  of  paternal 
benevolence  in  his  parting  nod  to  Phrebe,  the  Judge 
left  the  shop,  and  went  smiling  along  the  street.  As 
is  customary  with  the  rich,  when  they  aim  at  the  honors 
of  a  republic,  he  apologized,  as  it  were,  to  the  people, 
for  his  wealth,  prosperity,  and  elevated  station,  by  a 
free  and  hearty  manner  towards  those  who  knew  him ; 
putting  off  the  more  of  his  dignity  in  due  proportion 
with  the  humbleness  of  the  man  whom  he  saluted,  and 
thereby  proving  a  haughty  consciousness  of  his  advan- 
tages as  irrefragably  as  if  he  had  marched  forth  pre- 
ceded by  a  troop  of  lackeys  to  clear  the  way.  On  this 
particular  forenoon  so  excessive  was  the  warmth  of 
Judge  Pyncheon's  kindly  aspect,  that  (such,  at  least, 
was  the  rumor  about  town)  an  extra  passage  of  the 
water-carts  was  found  essential,  in  order  to  lay  the 
dust  occasioned  by  so  much  extra  sunshine ! 

No  sooner  had  he  disappeared  than  Hepzibah  grew 
deadly  white,  and,  staggering  towards  Phoebe,  let  her 
head  fall  on  the  young  girl's  shoulder. 

"  O  Phoebe !  "  murmured  she,  "  that  man  has  been 
the  horror  of  my  life  !  Shall  I  never,  never  have  the 
courage,  —  will  my  voice  never  cease  from  trembling 
long  enough  to  let  me  tell  him  what  he  is  ?  " 

"  Is  he  so  very  wicked  ?  "  asked  Phoebe.  "  Yet  his 
offers  were  surely  kind !  " 

"  Do  not  speak  of  them,  —  he  has  a  heart  of  iron  I " 
rejoined  Hepzibah.  "  Go,  now,  and  talk  to  Clifford ! 
Amuse  and  keep  him  quiet!  It  would  disturb  him 
wretchedly  to  see  me  so  agitated  as  I  am.  There,  go, 
dear  child,  and  I  will  try  to  look  after  the  shop." 

Phoebe  went,  accordingly,   but  perplexed  herself 


THE  PYNCHEON  OF  TO-DAY.  161 

meanwhile,  with  queries  as  to  the  purport  of  the 
scene  which  she  had  just  witnessed,  and  also  whether 
judges,  clergymen,  and  other  characters  of  that  emi- 
nent stamp  and  respectability,  could  really,  in  any  sin- 
gle instance,  be  otherwise  than  just  and  upright  men. 
A  doubt  of  this  nature  has  a  most  disturbing  influ« 
ence,  and,  if  shown  to  be  a  fact,  comes  with  fearful 
and  startling  effect  on  minds  of  the  trim,  orderly^ 
and  limit-loving  class,  in  which  we  find  our  little 
country -girl.  Dispositions  more  boldly  speculative 
may  derive  a  stern  enjoyment  from  the  discovery, 
since  there  must  be  evil  in  the  world,  that  a  high 
man  is  as  likely  to  grasp  his  share  of  it  as  a  low  one. 
A  wider  scope  of  view,  and  a  deeper  insight,  may  see 
rank,  dignity,  and  station,  all  proved  illusory,  so  far 
as  regards  their  claim  to  human  reverence,  and  yet 
not  feel  as  if  the  universe  were  thereby  tumbled  head- 
long into  chaos.  But  Phoebe,  in  order  to  keep  the 
universe  in  its  old  place,  was  fain  to  smother,  in  some 
degree,  her  own  intuitions  as  to  Judge  Pyncheon's 
character.  And  as  for  her  cousin's  testimony  in  dis- 
paragement of  it,  she  concluded  that  Hepzibah's  judg- 
ment was  imbittered  by  one  of  those  family  feuds, 
which  render  hatred  the  more  deadly  by  the  dead  and 
corrupted  love  that  they  intermingle  with  its  native 
poison. 


VOL.   lit 


rx. 

CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE. 

TRULY  was  there  something  high,  generous,  and 
noble  in  the  native  composition  of  our  poor  old  Hep> 
zibah !  Or  else,  —  and  it  was  quite  as  probably  the 
case,  —  she  had  been  enriched  by  poverty,  developed 
by  sorrow,  elevated  by  the  strong  and  solitary  affec- 
tion of  her  life,  and  thus  endowed  with  heroism,  which 
never  could  have  characterized  her  in  what  are  called 
happier  circumstances.  Through  dreary  years  Hep- 
zibah  had  looked  forward  —  for  the  most  part  de- 
spairingly, never  with  any  confidence  of  hope,  but  al- 
ways with  the  feeling  that  it  was  her  brightest  possi- 
bility —  to  the  very  position  in  which  she  now  found 
herself.  In  her  own  behalf,  she  had  asked  nothing 
of  Providence  but  the  opportunity  of  devoting  herself 
to  this  brother,  whom  she  had  so  loved,  — so  admired 
for  what  he  was,  or  might  have  been,  —  and  to  whom 
she  had  kept  her  faith,  alone  of  all  the  world,  wholly, 
unfalteringly,  at  every  instant,  and  throughout  life. 
And  here,  in  his  late  decline,  the  lost  one  had  come 
back  out  of  his  long  and  strange  misfortune,  and  was 
thrown  on  her  sympathy,  as  it  seemed,  not  merely  for 
the  bread  of  his  physical  existence,  but  for  everything 
that  should  keep  him  morally  alive.  She  had  re- 
sponded to  the  call.  She  had  come  forward,  —  our 
poor,  gaunt  Hepzibah,  in  her  rusty  silks,  with  her 
rigid  joints,  and  the  sad  perversity  of  her  scowl,  ~- 


CLIFFORD  AND  PH(EBE.  163 

ready  to  do  her  utmost ;  and  with  affection  enough,  if 
that  were  all,  to  do  a  hundred  times  as  much  !  There 
could  be  few  more  tearful  sights,  —  and  Heaven  for- 
give us  if  a  smile  insist  on  mingling  with  our  concep- 
tion of  it !  —  few  sights  with  truer  pathos  in  them, 
than  Hepzibah  presented  on  that  first  afternoon. 

How  patiently  did  she  endeavor  to  wrap  Clifford  up 
in  her  great,  warm  love,  and  make  it  all  the  world  to 
him,  so  that  he  should  retain  no  torturing  sense  of  the 
coldness  and  dreariness  without !  Her  little  efforts  to 
amuse  him !  How  pitiful,  yet  magnanimous,  they  were  I 

Remembering  his  early  love  of  poetry  and  fiction, 
she  unlocked  a  bookcase,  and  took  down  several  books 
that  had  been  excellent  reading  in  their  day.  There 
was  a  volume  of  Pope,  with  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  in 
it,  and  another  of  the  Tatler,  and  an  odd  one  of  Dry- 
den's  Miscellanies,  all  with  tarnished  gilding  on  their 
covers,  and  thoughts  of  tarnished  brilliancy  inside. 
They  had  no  success  with  Clifford.  These,  and  all 
such  writers  of  society,  whose  new  works  glow  like  the 
rich  texture  of  a  just-woven  carpet,  must  be  content  to 
relinquish  their  charm,  for  every  reader,  after  an  age  or 
two,  and  could  hardly  be  supposed  to  retain  any  por- 
tion  of  it  for  a  mind  that  had  utterly  lost  its  estimate  of 
modes  and  manners.  Hepzibah  then  took  up  Rasselas, 
and  began  to  read  of  the  Happy  Valley,  with  a  vague 
idea  that  some  secret  of  a  contented  life  had  there  been 
elaborated,  which  might  at  least  serve  Clifford  and  her- 
self for  this  one  day.  But  the  Happy  Valley  had  a 
cloud  over  it.  Hepzibah  troubled  her  auditor,  more- 
over, by  innumerable  sins  of  emphasis,  which  he 
seemed  to  detect,  without  any  reference  to  the  mean- 
ing ;  nor,  in  fact,  did  he  appear  to  take  much  note  of 
the  sense  of  what  she  read,  but  evidently  felt  the  tedium 


164      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

of  the  lecture,  without  harvesting  its  profit.  His  si» 
ter's  voice,  too,  naturally  harsh,  had,  in  the  course  of 
her  sorrowful  lifetime,  contracted  a  kind  of  croak, 
which,  when  it  once  gets  into  the  human  throat,  is  as 
ineradicable  as  sin.  In  both  sexes,  occasionally,  this 
life-long  croak,  accompanying  each  word  of  joy  or  sor- 
row, is  one  of  the  symptoms  of  a  settled  melancholy ; 
and  wherever  it  occurs,  the  whole  history  of  misfortune 
is  conveyed  in  its  slightest  accent.  The  effect  is  as  if 
the  voice  had  been  dyed  black ;  or,  —  if  we  must  use  a 
more  moderate  simile,  —  this  miserable  croak,  running 
through  all  the  variations  of  the  voice,  is  like  a  black 
silken  thread,  on  which  the  crystal  beads  of  speech  are 
strung,  and  whence  they  take  their  hue.  Such  voices 
have  put  on  mourning  for  dead  hopes ;  and  they  ought 
to  die  and  be  buried  along  with  them  ! 

Discerning  that  Clifford  was  not  gladdened  by  her  ef- 
forts, Hepzibah  searched  about  the  house  for  the  means 
of  more  exhilarating  pastime.  At  one  time,  her  eyes 
chanced  to  rest  on  Alice  Pyncheon's  harpsichord.  It 
was  a  moment  of  great  peril ;  for,  —  despite  the  tradi- 
tionary awe  that  had  gathered  over  this  instrument  of 
music,  and  the  dirges  which  spiritual  fingers  were  said 
to  play  on  it,  —  the  devoted  sister  had  solemn  thoughts 
of  thrumming  on  its  chords  for  Clifford's  benefit,  and 
accompanying  the  performance  with  her  voice.  Poor 
Clifford  !  Poor  Hepzibah  !  Poor  harpsichord !  All 
three  would  have  been  miserable  together.  By  some 
good  agency,  —  possibly,  by  the  unrecognized  interpo- 
sition of  the  long-buried  Alice  herself,  —  the  threaten- 
ing calamity  was  averted. 

But  the  worst  of  all  —  the  hardest  stroke  of  fate  for 
Hepzibah  to  endure,  and  perhaps  for  Clifford  too  — 
was  his  invincible  distaste  for  her  appearance.  Her 


CLIFFORD  AND  PH(EBE.  165 

features,  never  the  most  agreeable,  and  now  harsh  with 
age  and  grief,  and  resentment  against  the  world  for  his 
sake  ;  her  dress,  and  especially  her  turban ;  the  queer 
and  quaint  manners,  which  had  unconsciously  grown 
upon  her  in  solitude,  —  such  being  the  poor  gentle- 
woman's outward  characteristics,  it  is  no  great  marvel,; 
although  the  mournfullest  of  pities,  that  the  instinctive 
lover  of  the  Beautiful  was  fain  to  turn  away  his  eyes. 
There  was  no  help  for  it.  It  would  be  the  latest  im- 
pulse to  die  within  him.  In  his  last  extremity,  the  ex- 
piring breath  stealing  faintly  through  Clifford's  lips, 
he  would  doubtless  press  Hepzibah's  hand,  in  fervent 
recognition  of  all  her  lavished  love,  and  close  his  eyes, 
—  but  not  so  much  to  die,  as  to  be  constrained  to  look 
no  longer  on  her  face!  Poor  Hepzibah!  She  took 
counsel  with  herself  what  might  be  done,  and  thought 
of  putting  ribbons  on  her  turban  ;  but,  by  the  instant 
rush  of  several  guardian  angels,  was  withheld  from  an 
experiment  that  could  hardly  have  proved  less  than 
fatal  to  the  beloved  object  of  her  anxiety. 

To  be  brief,  besides  Hepzibah's  disadvantages  of  per- 
son, there  was  an  uncouthness  pervading  all  her  deeds ; 
a  clumsy  something,  that  could  but  ill  adapt  itself  for 
use,  and  not  at  all  for  ornament.  She  was  a  grief  to 
Clifford,  and  she  knew  it.  In  this  extremity,  the  anti- 
quated virgin  turned  to  Pho3be.  No  grovelling  jeal- 
ousy was  in  her  heart.  Had  it  pleased  Heaven  to 
crown  the  heroic  fidelity  of  her  life  by  making  her  per. 
sonally  the  medium  of  Clifford's  happiness,  it  would 
have  rewarded  her  for  all  the  past,  by  a  joy  with  no 
bright  tints,  indeed,  but  deep  and  true,  and  worth  a 
thousand  gayer  ecstasies.  This  could  not  be.  She 
therefore  turned  to  Phoebe,  and  resigned  the  task  into 
the  young  girl's  hands.  The  latter  took  it  up  cheer* 


16S    THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

fully,  as  she  did  everything,  but  with  no  sense  of  a 
mission  to  perform,  and  succeeding  all  the  better  for 
that  same  simplicity. 

By  the  involuntary  effect  of  a  genial  temperament, 
Phffibe  soon  grew  to  be  absolutely  essential  to  the  daily 
comfort,  if  not  the  daily  life,  of  her  two  forlorn  com- 
panions. The  grime  and  sordidness  of  the  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables  seemed  to  have  vanished  since  her 
appearance  there ;  the  gnawing  tooth  of  the  dry-rot  was 
stayed  among  the  old  timbers  of  its  skeleton  frame ; 
the  dust  had  ceased  to  settle  down  so  densely,  from  the 
antique  ceilings,  upon  the  floors  and  furniture  of  the 
rooms  below,  —  or,  at  any  rate,  there  was  a  little 
housewife,  as  light-footed  as  the  breeze  that  sweeps  a 
garden  walk,  gliding  hither  and  thither  to  brush  it  all 
away.  The  shadows  of  gloomy  events  that  haunted 
the  else  lonely  and  desolate  apartments;  the  heavy, 
breathless  scent  which  death  had  left  in  more  than  one 
of  the  bedchambers,  ever  since  his  visits  of  long  ago, 
— these  were  less  powerful  than  the  purifying  influence 
scattered  throughout  the  atmosphere  of  the  household 
by  the  presence  of  one  youthful,  fresh,  and  thoroughly 
wholesome  heart.  There  was  no  morbidness  in  Phosbe ; 
if  there  had  been,  the  old  Pyncheon  House  was  the 
very  locality  to  ripen  it  into  incurable  disease.  But 
now  her  spirit  resembled,  in  its  potency,  a  minute 
quantity  of  ottar  of  rose  in  one  of  Hepzibah's  huge, 
iron-bound  trunks,  diffusing  its  fragrance  through  the 
various  articles  of  linen  and  wrought-lace,  kerchiefs, 
caps,  stockings,  folded  dresses,  gloves,  and  whatever 
else  was  treasured  there.  As  every  article  in  the  great 
trunk  was  the  sweeter  for  the  rose-scent,  so  did  all  the 
thoughts  and  emotions  of  Hepzibah  and  Clifford,  som- 
bre as  they  might  seem,  acquire  a  subtle  attribute  of 


CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE.  167 

happiness  from  Phoebe's  intermixture  with  them.  Her 
activity  of  body,  intellect,  and  heart  impelled  her  con- 
tinually to  perform  the  ordinary  little  toils  that  offered 
themselves  around  her,  and  to  think  the  thought  proper 
for  the  moment,  and  to  sympathize,  —  now  with  the 
twittering  gayety  of  the  robins  in  the  pear-tree,  and 
now  to  such  a  depth  as  she  could  with  Hepzibah's  dark 
anxiety,  or  the  vague  moan  of  her  brother.  This  fac- 
ile adaptation  was  at  once  the  symptom  of  perfect 
health  and  its  best  preservative. 

A  nature  like  Phoebe's  has  invariably  its  due  in* 
fluence,  but  is  seldom  regarded  with  due  honor.  Itf 
spiritual  force,  however,  may  be  partially  estimated  by 
the  fact  of  her  having  found  a  place  for  herself,  amid 
circumstances  so  stern  as  those  which  surrounded  the 
mistress  of  the  house  ;  and  also  by  the  effect  which 
she  produced  on  a  character  of  so  much  more  mass 
than  her  own.  For  the  gaunt,  bony  frame  and  limbs 
of  Hepzibah,  as  compared  with  the  tiny  lightsomeness 
of  Phoabe's  figure,  were  perhaps  in  some  fit  proportion 
with  the  moral  weight  and  substance,  respectively,  of 
the  woman  and  the  girl. 

To  the  guest,  —  to  Hepzibah's  brother,  —  or  Cousin 
Clifford,  as  Phoabe  now  began  to  call  him,  —  she  was 
especially  necessary.  Not  that  he  could  ever  be  said 
to  converse  with  her,  or  often  manifest,  in  any  other 
very  definite  mode,  his  sense  of  a  charm  in  her  society. 
But  if  she  were  a  long  while  absent  he  became  pettish 
and  nervously  restless,  pacing  the  room  to  and  fro 
with  the  uncertainty  that  characterized  all  his  move- 
ments ;  or  else  would  sit  broodingly  in  his  great  chair, 
resting  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  evincing  life  only 
by  an  electric  sparkle  of  ill-humor,  whenever  Hepzi- 
bah endeavored  to  arouse  him.  Phoebe's  presence,  and 


168     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

the  contiguity  of  her  fresh  life  to  his  blighted  one,  was 
usually  all  that  he  required.  Indeed,  such  was  the 
native  gush  and  play  of  her  spirit,  that  she  was  seldom 
perfectly  quiet  and  undemonstrative,  any  more  than  a 
fountain  ever  ceases  to  dimple  and  warble  with  its 
flow.  She  possessed  the  gift  of  song,  and  that,  too,  so 
naturally,  that  you  would  as  little  think  of  inquiring 
whence  she  had  caught  it,  or  what  master  had  taught 
her,  as  of  asking  the  same  questions  about  a  bird,  in 
whose  small  strain  of  music  we  recognize  the  voice  of 
the  Creator  as  distinctly  as  in  the  loudest  accents  of 
his  thunder.  So  long  as  Phoebe  sang,  she  might  stray 
at  her  own  will  about  the  house.  Clifford  was  content, 
whether  the  sweet,  airy  homeliness  of  her  tones  came 
down  from  the  upper  chambers,  or  along  the  passage- 
way from  the  shop,  or  was  sprinkled  through  the  foli- 
age of  the  pear-tree,  inward  from  the  garden,  with  the 
twinkling  sunbeams.  He  would  sit  quietly,  with  a 
gentle  pleasure  gleaming  over  his  face,  brighter  now, 
and  now  a  little  dimmer,  as  the  song  happened  to  float 
near  him,  or  was  more  remotely  heard.  It  pleased  him 
best,  however,  when  she  sat  on  a  low  footstool  at  his 
knee. 

It  is  perhaps  remarkable,  considering  her  tempera^ 
ment,  that  Pho3be  oftener  chose  a  strain  of  pathos  than 
of  gayety.  But  the  young  and  happy  are  not  ill 
pleased  to  temper  their  life  with  a  transparent  shadow. 
The  deepest  pathos  of  Phoebe's  voice  and  song,  more- 
over, came  sifted  through  the  golden  texture  of  a 
cheery  spirit,  and  was  somehow  so  interfused  with  the 
quality  thence  acquired,  that  one's  heart  felt  all  the 
lighter  for  having  wept  at  it.  Broad  mirth,  in  the 
sacred  presence  of  dark  misfortune,  would  have  jarred 
harshly  and  irreverently  with  the  solemn  symphony 


CLIFFORD  AND  PH(EBE.  169 

that  rolled  its  undertone  through  Hepzibah's  and  her 
brother's  life.  Therefore,  it  was  well  that  Phoebe  so 
often  chose  sad  themes,  and  not  amiss  that  they  ceased 
to  be  so  sad  while  she  was  singing  them. 

Becoming  habituated  to  her  companionship,  Clifford 
readily  showed  how  capable  of  imbibing  pleasant  tints 
and  gleams  of  cheerful  light  from  all  quarters  his  na- 
ture must  originally  have  been.  He  grew  youthful 
while  she  sat  by  him.  A  beauty,  —  not  precisely  real, 
even  in  its  utmost  manifestation,  and  which  a  painter 
would  have  watched  long  to  seize  and  fix  upon  his 
canvas,  and,  after  all,  in  vain,  —  beauty,  nevertheless, 
that  was  not  a  mere  dream,  would  sometimes  play  upon 
and  illuminate  his  face.  It  did  more  than  to  illuminate ; 
it  transfigured  him  with  an  expression  that  could  only 
be  interpreted  as  the  glow  of  an  exquisite  and  happy 
spirit.  That  gray  hair,  and  those  furrows,  —  with 
their  record  of  infinite  sorrow  so  deeply  written  across 
his  brow,  and  so  compressed,  as  with  a  futile  effort  to 
crowd  in  all  the  tale,  that  the  whole  inscription  was 
made  illegible,  —  these,  for  the  moment,  vanished.  An 
eye,  at  once  tender  and  acute,  might  have  beheld  in 
the  man  some  shadow  of  what  he  was  meant  to  be. 
Anon,  as  age  came  stealing,  like  a  sad  twilight,  back 
over  his  figure,  you  would  have  felt  tempted  to  hold 
an  argument  with  Destiny,  and  affirm,  that  either  this 
being  should  not  have  been  made  mortal,  or  mortal 
existence  should  have  been  tempered  to  his  qualities. 
There  seemed  no  necessity  for  his  having  drawn  breath 
at  all ;  the  world  never  wanted  him  ;  but,  as  he  had 
breathed,  it  ought  always  to  have  been  the  balmiest 
of  summer  air.  The  same  perplexity  will  invariably 
haunt  us  with  regard  to  natures  that  tend  to  feed  ex- 
clusively upon  the  Beautiful,  let  their  earthly  fate  be 
as  lenient  as  it  may. 


170   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Phoebe,  it  is  probable,  had  but  a  very  imperfect 
comprehension  of  the  character  over  which  she  had 
thrown  so  beneficent  a  spell.  Nor  was  it  necessary. 
The  fire  upon  the  hearth  can  gladden  a  whole  semi- 
circle of  faces  round  about  it,  but  need  not  know  the 
individuality  of  one  among  them  all.  Indeed,  there 
was  something  too  fine  and  delicate  in  Clifford's  traitfe 
to  be  perfectly  appreciated  by  one  whose  sphere  lay  so 
much  in  the  Actual  as  Phoebe's  did.  For  Clifford, 
however,  the  reality,  and  simplicity,  and  thorough 
homeliness  of  the  girl's  nature,  were  as  powerful  a 
charm  as  any  that  she  possessed.  Beauty,  it  is  true, 
and  beauty  almost  perfect  in  its  own  style,  was  indis- 
pensable. Had  Phoebe  been  coarse  in  feature,  shaped 
clumsily,  of  a  harsh  voice,  and  uncouthly  mannered, 
she  might  have  been  rich  with  all  good  gifts,  beneath 
this  unfortunate  exterior,  and  still,  so  long  as  she  wore 
the  guise  of  woman,  she  would  have  shocked  Clifford, 
and  depressed  him  by  her  lack  of  beauty.  But  noth- 
ing more  beautiful  —  nothing  prettier,  at  least  —  was 
ever  made  than  Phosbe.  And,  therefore,  to  this  man, 
—  whose  whole  poor  and  impalpable  enjoyment  of  ex- 
istence heretofore,  and  until  both  his  heart  and  fancy 
died  within  him,  had  been  a  dream,  —  whose  images  of 
women  had  more  and  more  lost  their  warmth  and  sub- 
stance, and  been  frozen,  like  the  pictures  of  secluded 
artists,  into  the  chillest  ideality,  —  to  him,  this  little 
figure  of  the  cheeriest  household  life  was  just  what  he 
required  to  bring  him  back  into  the  breathing  world. 
Persons  who  have  wandered,  or  been  expelled,  out  of 
the  common  track  of  things,  even  were  it  for  a  better 
system,  desire  nothing  so  much  as  to  be  led  back.  They 
shiver  in  their  loneliness,  be  it  on  a  mountain-top  or 
in  a  dungeon.  Now,  Phoebe's  presence  made  a  home 


CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE.  171 

about  her,  —  that  very  sphere  which  the  outcast,  the 
prisoner,  the  potentate,  —  the  wretch  beneath  mankind, 
the  wretch  aside  from  it,  or  the  wretch  above  it,  —  in- 
stinctively pines  after,  —  a  home !  She  was  real ! 
Holding  her  hand,  you  felt  something  ;  a  tender  some- 
thing ;  a  substance,  and  a  warm  one :  and  so  long  as 
you  should  feel  its  grasp,  soft  as  it  was,  you  might  be 
certain  that  your  place  was  good  in  the  whole  sym- 
pathetic chain  of  human  nature.  The  world  was  no 
longer  a  delusion. 

By  looking  a  little  further  in  this  direction,  we 
might  suggest  an  explanation  of  an  often-suggested 
mystery.  Why  are  poets  so  apt  to  choose  their  mates, 
not  for  any  similarity  of  poetic  endowment,  but  for 
qualities  which  might  make  the  happiness  of  the 
rudest  handicraftsman  as  well  as  that  of  the  ideal 
craftsman  of  the  spirit?  Because,  probably,  at  his 
highest  elevation,  the  poet  needs  no  human  inter- 
course ;  but  he  finds  it  dreary  to  descend,  and  be  a 
stranger. 

There  was  something  very  beautiful  in  the  relation 
that  grew  up  between  this  pair,  so  closely  and  con- 
stantly linked  together,  yet  with  such  a  waste  of 
gloomy  and  mysterious  years  from  his  birthday  to 
hers.  On  Clifford's  part  it  was  the  feeling  of  a  man 
naturally  endowed  with  the  liveliest  sensibility  to  fem- 
inine influence,  but  who  had  never  quaffed  the  cup  of 
passionate  love,  and  knew  that  it  was  now  too  late. 
He  knew  it,  with  the  instinctive  delicacy  that  had  sur- 
vived his  intellectual  decay.  Thus,  his  sentiment  for 
Phoebe,  without  being  paternal,  was  not  less  chaste 
than  if  she  had  been  his  daughter.  He  was  a  man,  it 
is  true,  and  recognized  her  as  a  woman.  She  was  his 
only  representative  of  womankind.  He  took  uiifail- 


172      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ing  note  of  every  charm  that  appertained  to  her  sex, 
and  saw  the  ripeness  of  her  lips,  and  the  virginal  de- 
velopment of  her  bosom.  All  her  little  womanly  ways, 
budding  out  of  her  like  blossoms  on  a  young  fruit- 
tree,  had  their  effect  on  him,  and  sometimes  caused 
his  very  heart  to  tingle  with  the  keenest  thrills  of 
pleasure.  At  such  moments,  —  for  the  effect  was  sel- 
dom more  than  momentary,  —  the  half  -  torpid  man 
would  be  full  of  harmonious  life,  just  as  a  long-silent 
harp  is  full  of  sound,  when  the  musician's  fingers 
sweep  across  it.  But,  after  all,  it  seemed  rather  a 
perception,  or  a  sympathy,  than  a  sentiment  belonging 
to  himself  as  an  individual.  He  read  Phrebe,  as  he 
would  a  sweet  and  simple  story  ;  he  listened  to  her,  as 
if  she  were  a  verse  of  household  poetry,  which  God, 
in  requital  of  his  bleak  and  dismal  lot,  had  permitted 
some  angel,  that  most  pitied  him,  to  warble  through 
the  house.  She  was  not  an  actual  fact  for  him,  but 
the  interpretation  of  all  that  he  had  lacked  on  earth 
brought  warmly  home  to  his  conception ;  so  that  this 
mere  symbol,  or  lifelike  picture,  had  almost  the  com- 
fort of  reality. 

But  we  strive  in  vain  to  put  the  idea  into  words. 
No  adequate  expression  of  the  beauty  and  profound 
pathos  with  which  it  impresses  us  is  attainable.  This 
being,  made  only  for  happiness,  and  heretofore  so  mis- 
erably failing  to  be  happy,  —  his  tendencies  so  hide- 
ously thwarted,  that,  some  unknown  time  ago,  the  del- 
icate springs  of  his  character,  never  morally  or  intel- 
lectually strong,  had  given  way,  and  he  was  now 
imbecile, — this  poor,  forlorn,  voyager  from  the  Isl- 
ands of  the  Blest,  in  a  frail  bark,  on  a  tempestuous 
Bea,  had  been  flung,  by  the  last  mountain-wave  of  his 
shipwreck,  into  a  quiet  harbor.  There,  as  he  lay  more 


CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE.  173 

than  half  lifeless  on  the  strand,  the  fragrance  of  an 
earthly  rose-bud  had  come  to  his  nostrils,  and,  as  odors 
will,  had  summoned  up  reminiscences  or  visions  of  all 
the  living  and  breathing  beauty  amid  which  he  should 
have  had  his  home.  With  his  native  susceptibility  of 
happy  influences,  he  inhales  the  slight,  ethereal  rap- 
ture into  his  soul,  and  expires  ! 

And  how  did  Phrebe  regard  Clifford  ?  The  girl's 
was  not  one  of  those  natures  which  are  most  attracted 
by  what  is  strange  and  exceptional  in  human  charac- 
ter. The  path  which  would  best  have  suited  her  was 
the  well-worn  track  of  ordinary  life ;  the  companions 
in  whom  she  would  most  have  delighted  were  such  as 
one  encounters  at  every  turn.  The  mystery  which  en' 
veloped  Clifford,  so  far  as  it  affected  her  at  all,  was  an 
annoyance,  rather  than  the  piquant  charm  which  many 
women  might  have  found  in  it.  Still,  her  native  kind- 
liness was  brought  strongly  into  play,  not  by  what  was 
darkly  picturesque  in  his  situation,  nor  so  much,  even, 
by  the  finer  graces  of  his  character,  as  by  the  simple 
appeal  of  a  heart  so  forlorn  as  his  to  one  so  full  of 
genuine  sympathy  as  hers.  She  gave  him  an  affec- 
tionate regard,  because  he  needed  so  much  love,  and 
seemed  to  have  received  so  little.  With  a  ready  tact, 
the  result  of  ever-active  and  wholesome  sensibility,  she 
discerned  what  was  good  for  him,  and  did  it.  What- 
ever  was  morbid  in  his  mind  and  experience  she  ig- 
nored ;  and  thereby  kept  their  intercourse  healthy,  by 
the  incautious,  but,  as  it  were,  heaven-directed  freedom 
of  her  whole  conduct.  The  sick  in  mind,  and,  per. 
haps,  in  body,  are  rendered  more  darkly  and  hope- 
lessly so  by  the  manifold  reflection  of  their  disease, 
mirrored  back  from  all  quarters  in  the  deportment  of 
those  about  them ;  they  are  compelled  to  inhale  the 


174      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

poison  of  their  own  breath,  in  infinite  repetition.  But 
Phoebe  afforded  her  poor  patient  a  supply  of  purer 
air.  She  impregnated  it,  too,  not  with  a  wild-flower 
scent,  —  for  wild  ness  was  no  trait  of  hers,  —  but  with 
the  perfume  of  garden-roses,  pinks,  and  other  blossoms 
of  much  sweetness,  which  nature  and  man  have  con- 
sented  together  in  making  grow  from  summer  to  sum- 
mer, and  from  century  to  century.  Such  a  flower  was 
Phoebe,  in  her  relation  with  Clifford,  and  such  the  de- 
light that  he  inhaled  from  her. 

Yet,  it  must  be  said,  her  petals  sometimes  drooped 
a  little,  in  consequence  of  the  heavy  atmosphere 
about  her.  She  grew  more  thoughtful  than  hereto- 
fore. Looking  aside  at  Clifford's  face,  and  seeing  the 
dim,  unsatisfactory  elegance  and  the  intellect  almost 
quenched,  she  would  try  to  inquire  what  had  been  his 
life.  Was  he  always  thus  ?  Had  this  veil  been  over 
him  from  his  birth?  —  this  veil,  under  which  far  more 
of  his  spirit  was  hidden  than  revealed,  and  through 
which  he  so  imperfectly  discerned  the  actual  world,  — 
or  was  its  gray  texture  woven  of  some  dark  calamity  ? 
Phcebe  loved  no  riddles,  and  would  have  been  glad  to 
escape  the  perplexity  of  this  one.  Nevertheless,  there 
was  so  far  a  good  result  of  her  meditations  on  Clif- 
ford's character,  that,  when  her  involuntary  conjec- 
tures, together  with  the  tendency  of  every  strange  cir- 
cumstance to  tell  its  own  story,  had  gradually  taught 
her  the  fact,  it  had  no  terrible  effect  upon  her.  Let 
the  world  have  done  him  what  vast  wrong  it  might, 
she  knew  Cousin  Clifford  too  well  —  or  fancied  so  — 
ever  to  shudder  at  the  touch  of  his  thin  delicate  fin. 
gers. 

Within  a  few  days  after  the  appearance  of  this  re- 
markable inmate,  the  routine  of  life  had  established 


CLIFFORD  AND  PHCEBE.  175 

itself  with  a  good  deal  of  uniformity  in  the  old  house 
of  our  narrative.  In  the  morning,  very  shortly  after 
breakfast,  it  was  Clifford's  custom  to  fall  asleep  in 
his  chair ;  nor,  unless  accidentally  disturbed,  would  he 
emerge  from  a  dense  cloud  of  slumber  or  the  thinner 
mists  that  flitted  to  and  fro,  until  well  towards  noon- 
day. These  hours  of  drowsihead  were  the  season  of  the 
old  gentlewoman's  attendance  on  her  brother,  while 
Phoebe  took  charge  of  the  shop;  an  arrangement 
which  the  public  speedily  understood,  and  evinced 
their  decided  preference  of  the  younger  shopwoman  by 
the  multiplicity  of  their  calls  during  her  administra- 
tion of  affairs.  Dinner  over,  Hepzibah  took  her  knit* 
ting-work,  —  a  long  stocking  of  gray  yarn,  for  her 
brother's  winter- wear,  —  and  with  a  sigh,  and  a  scowl 
of  affectionate  farewell  to  Clifford,  and  a  gesture  en- 
joining watchfulness  on  Phrebe,  went  to  take  her  seat 
behind  the  counter.  It  was  now  the  young  girl's  turn 
to  be  the  nurse,  —  the  guardian,  the  playmate,  —  or 
whatever  is  the  fitter  phrase,  —  of  the  gray-haired 
man. 


X. 

THE   PYNCHEON    GARDEN. 

CLIFFORD,  except  for  Phoebe's  more  active  insti- 
gation, would  ordinarily  have  yielded  to  the  torpor 
which  had  crept  through  all  his  modes  of  being,  and 
which  sluggishly  counselled  him  to  sit  in  his  morning 
chair  till  eventide.  But  the  girl  seldom  failed  to  pro- 
pose a  removal  to  the  garden,  where  Uncle  Venner 
and  the  daguerreotypist  had  made  such  repairs  on  the 
roof  of  the  ruinous  arbor,  or  summer-house,  that  it  was 
now  a  sufficient  shelter  from  sunshine  and  casual 
showers.  The  hop- vine,  too,  had  begun  to  grow  luxu- 
riantly over  the  sides  of  the  little  edifice,  and  made  an 
interior  of  verdant  seclusion,  with  innumerable  peeps 
and  glimpses  into  the  wider  solitude  of  the  garden. 

Here,  sometimes,  in  this  green  play-place  of  flick- 
ering light,  Phoebe  read  to  Clifford.  Her  acquaint- 
ance, the  artist,  who  appeared  to  have  a  literary  turn, 
had  supplied  her  with  works  of  fiction,  in  pamphlet- 
form,  and  a  few  volumes  of  poetry,  in  altogether  a  dif- 
ferent style  and  taste  from  those  which  Hepzibah  se- 
lected for  his  amusement.  Small  thanks  were  due 
to  the  books,  however,  if  the  girl's  readings  were  in 
any  degree  more  successful  than  her  elderly  cousin's. 
Phoebe's  voice  had  always  a  pretty  music  in  it,  and 
could  either  enliven  Clifford  by  its  sparkle  and  gayety 
of  tone,  or  soothe  him  by  a  continued  flow  of  pebbly 
and  brook-like  cadences.  But  the  fictions  —  in  which 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.       177 

the  country-girl,  unused  to  works  of  that  nature,  often 
became  deeply  absorbed — interested  her  strange  audi- 
tor very  little,  or  not  at  all.  Pictures  of  life,  scenes 
of  passion  or  sentiment,  wit,  humor,  and  pathos,  were 
all  thrown  away,  or  worse  than  thrown  away,  on  Clif- 
ford ;  either  because  he  lacked  an  experience  by  which 
to  test  their  truth,  or  because  his  own  griefs  were  a 
touch-stone  of  reality  that  few  feigned  emotions  could 
withstand.  When  Phosbe  broke  into  a  peal  of  merry 
laughter  at  what  she  read,  he  would  now  and  then 
laugh  for  sympathy,  but  oftener  respond  with  a 
troubled,  questioning  look.  If  a  tear — a  maiden's 
sunshiny  tear  over  imaginary  woe  —  dropped  upon 
some  melancholy  page,  Clifford  either  took  it  as  a 
token  of  actual  calamity,  or  else  grew  peevish,  and 
angrily  motioned  her  to  close  the  volume.  And 
wisely  too!  Is  not  the  world  sad  enough,  in  genuine 
earnest,  without  making  a  pastime  of  mock-sorrows? 

With  poetry  it  was  rather  better.  He  delighted  in 
the  swell  and  subsidence  of  the  rhythm,  and  the  hap- 
pily recurring  rhyme.  Nor  was  Clifford  incapable  of 
feeling  the  sentiment  of  poetry,  —  not,  perhaps,  where 
it  was  highest  or  deepest,  but  where  it  was  most  flit- 
ting and  ethereal.  It  was  impossible  to  foretell  in 
what  exquisite  verse  the  awakening  spell  might  lurk ; 
but,  on  raising  her  eyes  from  the  page  to  Clifford's 
face,  Phoebe  would  be  made  aware,  by  the  light  break- 
ing through  it,  that  a  more  delicate  intelligence  than 
her  own  had  caught  a  lambent  flame  from  what  she 
read.  One  glow  of  this  kind,  however,  was  often  the 
precursor  of  gloom  for  many  hours  afterward;  be- 
cause, when  the  glow  left  him,  he  seemed  conscious  of 
a  missing  sense  and  power,  and  groped  about  for  them, 
as  if  a  blind  man  should  go  seeking  his  lost  eyesight. 

VOL.  m.  12 


178      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

It  pleased  him  more,  and  was  better  for  his  inward 
welfare,  that  Phoebe  should  talk,  and  make  passing 
occurrences  vivid  to  his  mind  by  her  accompanying  de- 
scription and  remarks.  The  life  of  the  garden  offered 
topics  enough  for  such  discourse  as  suited  Clifford 
best.  He  never  failed  to  inquire  what  flowers  had 
bloomed  since  yesterday.  His  feeling  for  flowers  was 
very  exquisite,  and  seemed  not  so  much  a  taste  as  an 
emotion ;  he  was  fond  of  sitting  with  one  in  his  hand, 
intently  observing  it,  and  looking  from  its  petals  into 
Phoebe's  face,  as  if  the  garden  flower  were  the  sister 
of  the  household  maiden.  Not  merely  was  there  a  de- 
light in  the  flower's  perfume,  or  pleasure  in  its  beauti- 
ful form,  and  the  delicacy  or  brightness  of  its  hue ; 
but  Clifford's  enjoyment  was  accompanied  with  a 
perception  of  life,  character,  and  individuality,  that 
made  bun  love  these  blossoms  of  the  garden,  as  if  they 
were  endowed  with  sentiment  and  intelligence.  This 
affection  and  sympathy  for  flowers  is  almost  exclu- 
sively a  woman's  trait.  Men,  if  endowed  with  it  by 
nature,  soon  lose,  forget,  and  learn  to  despise  it,  in 
their  contact  with  coarser  things  than  flowers.  Clif- 
ford, too,  had  long  forgotten  it;  but  found  it  again 
now,  as  he  slowly  revived  from  the  chill  torpor  of  his 
life. 

It  is  wonderful  how  many  pleasant  incidents  contin- 
ually came  to  pass  in  that  secluded  garden-spot  when 
once  Phoebe  had  set  herself  to  look  for  them.  She 
had  seen  or  heard  a  bee  there,  on  the  first  day  of  her 
acquaintance  with  the  place.  And  often,  —  almost 
continually,  indeed,  —  since  then,  the  bees  kept  com- 
ing thither,  Heaven  knows  why,  or  by  what  pertina- 
cious desire,  for  far-fetched  sweets,  when,  no  doubt, 
there  were  broad  clover-fields,  and  all  kinds  of  garden 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  179 

growth,  much  nearer  home  than  this.  Thither  the 
bees  came,  however,  and  plunged  into  the  squash-blos- 
soms, as  if  there  were  no  other  squash-vines  within  a 
long  day's  flight,  or  as  if  the  soil  of  Hepzibah's  gar- 
den gave  its  productions  just  the  very  quality  which 
these  laborious  little  wizards  wanted,  in  order  to  im- 
part the  Hymettus  odor  to  their  whole  hive  of  New 
England  honey.  When  Clifford  heard  their  sunny, 
buzzing  murmur,  in  the  heart  of  the  great  yellow  blos- 
soms, he  looked  about  him  with  a  joyful  sense  of 
warmth,  and  blue  sky,  and  green  grass,  and  of  God's 
free  air  in  the  whole  height  from  earth  to  heaven. 
After  all,  there  need  be  no  question  why  the  bees 
came  to  that  one  green  nook  in  the  dusty  town.  God 
sent  them  thither  to  gladden  our  poor  Clifford.  They 
brought  the  rich  summer  with  them,  in  requital  of  a 
little  honey. 

When  the  bean-vines  began  to  flower  on  the  poles, 
there  was  one  particular  variety  which  bore  a  vivid 
scarlet  blossom.  The  daguerreotypist  had  found  these 
beans  in  a  garret,  over  one  of  the  seven  gables,  treas- 
ured up  in  an  old  chest  of  drawers,  by  some  horticul- 
tural Pyncheon  of  days  gone  by,  who,  doubtless,  meant 
to  sow  them  the  next  summer,  but  was  himself  first 
sown  in  Death's  garden-ground.  By  way  of  testing 
whether  there  were  still  a  living  germ  in  such  ancient 
seeds,  Holgrave  had  planted  some  of  them  ;  and  the 
result  of  his  experiment  was  a  splendid  row  of  bean- 
vines,  clambering,  early,  to  the  full  height  of  the 
poles,  and  arraying  them,  from  top  to  bottom,  in  a 
spiral  profusion  of  red  blossoms.  And,  ever  since 
the  unfolding  of  the  first  bud,  a  multitude  of  hum- 
ming-birds had  been  attracted  thither.  At  times,  it 
seemed  as  if  for  every  one  of  the  hundred  blossoms 


180      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

there  was  one  of  these  tiniest  fowls  of  the  air,  —  a 
thumb's  bigness  of  burnished  plumage,  hovering  and 
vibrating  about  the  bean-poles.  It  was  with  indescrib- 
able interest,  and  even  more  than  childish  delight, 
that  Clifford  watched  the  humming-birds.  He  used 
to  thrust  his  head  softly  out  of  the  arbor  to  see  them 
the  better ;  all  the  while,  too,  motioning  Phosbe  to  be 
quiet,  and  snatching  glimpses  of  the  smile  upon  her 
face,  so  as  to  heap  his  enjoyment  up  the  higher  with 
her  sympathy.  He  had  not  merely  grown  young ;  — 
he  was  a  child  again. 

Hepzibah,  whenever  she  happened  to  witness  one 
of  these  fits  of  miniature  enthusiasm,  would  shake  her 
head,  with  a  strange  mingling  of  the  mother  and  sis- 
ter, and  of  pleasure  and  sadness,  in  her  aspect.  She 
said  that  it  had  always  been  thus  with  Clifford  when 
the  humming-birds  came,  —  always,  from  his  baby- 
hood, —  and  that  his  delight  in  them  had  been  one 
of  the  earliest  tokens  by  which  he  showed  his  love 
for  beautiful  things.  And  it  was  a  wonderful  coin- 
cidence, the  good  lady  thought,  that  the  artist  should 
have  planted  these  scarlet-flowering  beans  —  which  the 
humming-birds  sought  far  and  wide,  and  which  had 
not  grown  in  the  Pyncheon  garden  before  for  forty 
years  —  on  the  very  summer  of  Clifford's  return. 

Then  would  the  tears  stand  in  poor  Hepzibah's  eyes, 
or  overflow  them  with  a  too  abundant  gush,  so  that 
she  was  fain  to  betake  herself  into  some  corner  lest 
Clifford  should  espy  her  agitation.  Indeed,  all  the 
enjoyments  of  this  period  were  provocative  of  tears. 
Coming  so  late  as  it  did,  it  was  a  kind  of  Indian  sum- 
mer, with  a  mist  in  its  balmiest  sunshine,  and  decay 
and  death  in  its  gaudiest  delight.  The  more  Clifford 
seemed  to  taste  the  happiness  of  a  child,  the  sadder 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  181 

tras  the  difference  to  be  recognized.  With  a  myste- 
rious and  terrible  Past,  which  had  annihilated  his 
memory,  and  a  blank  Future  before  him,  he  had  only 
this  visionary  and  impalpable  Now,  which,  if  you  once 
look  closely  at  it,  is  nothing.  He  himself,  as  was  per. 
ceptible  by  many  symptoms,  lay  darkly  behind  hia 
pleasure,  and  knew  it  to  be  a  baby-play,  which  he  was 
to  toy  and  trifle  with,  instead  of  thoroughly  believing. 
Clifford  saw,  it  may  be,  in  the  mirror  of  his  deeper 
consciousness,  that  he  was  an  example  and  represen- 
tative of  that  great  class  of  people  whom  an  inexplica- 
ble Providence  is  continually  putting  at  cross-purposes 
with  the  world  :  breaking  what  seems  its  own  promise 
in  their  nature ;  withholding  their  proper  food,  and 
setting  poison  before  them  for  a  banquet :  and  thus 
—  when  it  might  so  easily,  as  one  would  think,  have 
been  adjusted  otherwise  —  making  their  existence  a 
strangeness,  a  solitude,  and  torment.  All  his  life  long, 
he  had  been  learning  how  to  be  wretched,  as  one 
learns  a  foreign  tongue ;  and  now,  with  the  lesson 
thoroughly  by  heart,  he  could  with  difficulty  compre- 
hend his  little  airy  happiness.  Frequently  there  was 
a  dim  shadow  of  doubt  in  his  eyes.  "  Take  my  hand, 
Phoebe,"  he  would  say,  "  and  pinch  it  hard  with  your 
little  fingers  !  Give  me  a  rose,  that  I  may  press  its 
thorns,  and  prove  myself  awake  by  the  sharp  touch 
of  pain !  "  Evidently,  he  desired  this  prick  of  a  tri- 
fling anguish,  in  order  to  assure  himself,  by  that  qual- 
ity which  he  best  knew  to  be  real,  that  the  garden, 
and  the  seven  weather-beaten  gables,  and  Hepzibah's 
scowl,  and  Phoebe's  smile,  were  real  likewise.  With- 
out this  signet  in  his  flesh,  he  could  have  attributed 
no  more  substance  to  them  than  to  the  empty  confu- 
sion of  imaginary  scenes  with  which  he  had  fed  his 
spirit,  until  even  that  poor  sustenance  was  exhausted. 


182       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

The  author  needs  great  faith  in  his  reader's  sym- 
pathy ;  else  he  must  hesitate  to  give  details  so  minute, 
and  incidents  apparently  so  trifling,  as  are  essential 
to  make  up  the  idea  of  this  garden-life.  It  was  the 
Eden  of  a  thunder-smitten  Adam,  who  had  fled  for 
refuge  thither  out  of  the  same  dreary  and  perilous 
wilderness  into  which  the  original  Adam  was  expelled. 

One  of  the  available  means  of  amusement,  of  which 
Phoebe  made  the  most  in  Clifford's  behalf,  was  that 
feathered  society,  the  hens,  a  breed  of  whom,  as  we 
have  already  said,  was  an  immemorial  heirloom  in  the 
Pyncheon  family.  In  compliance  with  a  whim  of  Clif- 
ford, as  it  troubled  him  to  see  them  in  confinement, 
they  had  been  set  at  liberty,  and  now  roamed  at  will 
about  the  garden  ;  doing  some  little  mischief  but  hin- 
dered from  escape  by  buildings  on  three  sides,  and 
the  difficult  peaks  of  a  wooden  fence  on  the  other. 
They  spent  much  of  their  abundant  leisure  on  the 
margin  of  Maule's  well,  which  was  haunted  by  a  kind 
of  snail,  evidently  a  titbit  to  their  palates ;  and  the 
brackish  water  itself,  however  nauseous  to  the  rest  of 
the  world,  was  so  greatly  esteemed  by  these  fowls, 
that  they  might  be  seen  tasting,  turning  up  their 
heads,  and  smacking  their  bills,  with  precisely  the 
air  of  wine-bibbers  round  a  probationary  cask.  Their 
generally  quiet,  yet  often  brisk,  and  constantly  diver- 
sified talk,  one  to  another,  or  sometimes  in  soliloquy, 
—  as  they  scratched  worms  out  of  the  rich,  black 
soil,  or  pecked  at  such  plants  as  suited  their  taste,  — • 
had  such  a  domestic  tone,  that  it  was  almost  a  won- 
der why  you  could  not  establish  a  regular  interchange 
of  ideas  about  household  matters,  human  and  gallina- 
ceous. All  hens  are  well  worth  studying  for  the  piq- 
uancy and  rich  variety  of  their  manners  ;  but  by  no 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  183 

possibility  can  there  have  been  other  fowls  of  such 
odd  appearance  and  deportment  as  these  ancestral 
ones.  They  probably  embodied  the  traditionary  pe- 
culiarities of  their  whole  line  of  progenitors,  derived 
through  an  unbroken  succession  of  eggs  ;  or  else  this 
individual  Chanticleer  and  his  two  wives  had  grown 
to  be  humorists,  and  a  little  crack-brained  withal,  oil 
account  of  their  solitary  way  of  life,  and  out  of  sym- 
pathy for  Hepzibah,  their  lady-patroness. 

Queer,  indeed,  they  looked!  Chanticleer  himself, 
though  stalking  on  two  stilt-like  legs,  with  the  dignity 
of  interminable  descent  in  all  his  gestures,  was  hardly 
bigger  than  an  ordinary  partridge  ;  his  two  wives  were 
about  the  size  of  quails ;  and  as  for  the  one  chicken,  it 
looked  small  enough  to  be  still  in  the  egg,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  sufficiently  old,  withered,  wizened,  and  ex- 
perienced, to  have  been  the  founder  of  the  antiquated 
race.  Instead  of  being  the  youngest  of  the  family,  it 
rather  seemed  to  have  aggregated  into  itself  the  ages, 
not  only  of  these  living  specimens  of  the  breed,  but 
of  all  its  forefathers  and  foremothers,  whose  united 
excellences  and  oddities  were  squeezed  into  its  little 
body.  Its  mother  evidently  regarded  it  as  the  one 
chicken  of  the  world,  and  as  necessary,  in  fact,  to  the 
world's  continuance,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  the  equilibrium 
of  the  present  system  of  affairs,  whether  in  church  or 
state.  No  lesser  sense  of  the  infant  fowl's  importance 
could  have  justified,  even  in  a  mother's  eyes,  the  per- 
severance with  which  she  watched  over  its  safety,  ruf- 
fling her  small  person  to  twice  its  proper  size,  and 
flying  in  everybody's  face  that  so  much  as  looked  to- 
wards her  hopeful  progeny.  No  lower  estimate  could 
have  vindicated  the  indefatigable  zeal  with  which  she 
tcratched,  and  her  unscrupulousness  in  digging  up  the 


184      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

choicest  flower  or  vegetable,  for  the  sake  of  the  fat 
earthworm  at  its  root.  Her  nervous  cluck,  when  the 
chicken  happened  to  be  hidden  in  the  long  grass  or 
under  the  squash-leaves ;  her  gentle  croak  of  satisf aa 
tion,  while  sure  of  it  beneath  her  wing ;  her  note  oi 
ill-concealed  fear  and  obstreperous  defiance,  when  she 
saw  her  arch-enemy,  a  neighbor's  cat,  on  the  top  of 
the  high  fence,  —  one  or  other  of  these  sounds  was 
to  be  heard  at  almost  every  moment  of  the  day.  By 
degrees,  the  observer  came  to  feel  nearly  as  much  in- 
terest in  this  chicken  of  illustrious  race  as  the  mother- 
hen  did. 

Phoebe,  after  getting  well  acquainted  with  the  old 
hen,  was  sometimes  permitted  to  take  the  chicken  in 
her  hand,  which  was  quite  capable  of  grasping  its  cu- 
bic inch  or  two  of  body.  While  she  curiously  examined 
its  hereditary  marks,  —  the  peculiar  speckle  of  its 
plumage,  the  funny  tuft  on  its  head,  and  a  knob  on 
each  of  its  legs,  —  the  little  biped,  as  she  insisted,  kept 
giving  her  a  sagacious  wink.  The  daguerreotypist 
once  whispered  her  that  these  marks  betokened  the 
oddities  of  the  Pyncheon  family,  and  that  the  chicken 
itself  was  a  symbol  of  the  life  of  the  old  house,  em= 
bodying  its  interpretation,  likewise,  although  an  unin- 
telligible one,  as  such  clews  generally  are.  It  was  a 
feathered  riddle  ;  a  mystery  hatched  out  of  an  egg, 
and  just  as  mysterious  as  if  the  egg  had  been  addle  1 

The  second  of  Chanticleer's  two  wives,  ever  since 
Phoebe's  arrival,  had  been  in  a  state  of  heavy  de- 
spondency, caused,  as  it  afterwards  appeared,  by  her 
inability  to  lay  an  egg.  One  day,  however,  by  her 
self-important  gait,  the  sideway  turn  of  her  head,  and 
the  cock  of  her  eye,  as  she  pried  into  one  and  anothei 
nook  of  the  garden,  —  croaking  to  herself,  all  th« 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  185 

fchile,  with  inexpressible  complacency,  —  it  was  made 
evident  that  this  identical  hen,  much  as  mankind  un- 
dervalued her,  carried  something  about  her  person  the 
worth  of  which  was  not  to  be  estimated  either  in  gold 
or  precious  stones.  Shortly  after  there  was  a  prodig- 
ious cackling  and  gratulation  of  Chanticleer  and  all  his 
family,  including  the  wizened  chicken,  who  appeared 
to  understand  the  matter  quite  as  well  as  did  his  sire, 
his  mother,  or  his  aunt.  That  afternoon  Phosbe  found 
a  diminutive  egg,  —  not  in  the  regular  nest,  it  was  far 
too  precious  to  be  trusted  there,  —  but  cunningly  hid- 
den under  the  currant-bushes,  on  some  dry  stalks  of 
last  year's  grass.  Hepzibah,  on  learning  the  fact, 
took  possession  of  the  egg  and  appropriated  it  to  Clif- 
ford's breakfast,  on  account  of  a  certain  delicacy  of 
flavor,  for  which,  as  she  affirmed,  these  eggs  had  al- 
ways been  famous.  Thus  unscrupulously  did  the  old 
gentlewoman  sacrifice  the  continuance,  perhaps,  of  an 
ancient  feathered  race,  with  no  better  end  than  to  sup- 
ply her  brother  with  a  dainty  that  hardly  filled  the 
bowl  of  a  tea-spoon  !  It  must  have  been  in  reference 
to  this  outrage  that  Chanticleer,  the  next  day,  accom- 
panied by  the  bereaved  mother  of  the  egg,  took  his 
post  in  front  of  Phoebe  and  Clifford,  and  delivered 
himself  of  a  harangue  that  might  have  proved  as  long 
as  his  own  pedigree,  but  for  a  fit  of  merriment  on 
Pbxfibe's  part.  Hereupon,  the  offended  fowl  stalked 
away  on  his  long  stilts,  and  utterly  withdrew  his  no- 
tice from  Phoebe  and  the  rest  of  human  nature,  until 
she  made  her  peace  with  an  offering  of  spice-cake, 
which,  next  to  snails,  was  the  delicacy  most  in  favor 
with  his  aristocratic  taste. 

We  linger  too  long,  no  doubt,  beside  this  paltry  riv- 
ulet of  life  that  flowed  through  the  garden  of  the 


186      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Pyncheon  House.  But  we  deem  it  pardonable  to  ra 
cord  these  mean  incidents  and  poor  delights,  because 
they  proved  so  greatly  to  Clifford's  benefit.  They 
had  the  earth-smell  in  them,  and  contributed  to  give 
him  health  and  substance.  Some  of  his  occupations 
wrought  less  desirably  upon  him.  He  had  a  singular 
propensity,  for  example,  to  hang  over  Maule's  well, 
and  look  at  the  constantly  shifting  phantasmagoria  of 
figures  produced  by  the  agitation  of  the  water,  over 
the  mosaic-work  of  colored  pebbles  at  the  bottom.  He 
said  that  faces  looked  upward  to  him  there, —  beautiful 
faces,  arrayed  in  bewitching  smiles,  —  each  moment- 
ary face  so  fair  and  rosy,  and  every  smile  so  sunny, 
that  he  felt  wronged  at  its  departure,  until  the  same 
flitting  witchcraft  made  a  new  one.  But  sometimes  he 
would  suddenly  cry  out,  "  The  dark  face  gazes  at  me !  " 
and  be  miserable  the  whole  day  afterwards.  Phoebe, 
when  she  hung  over  the  fountain  by  Clifford's  side, 
could  see  nothing  of  all  this,  —  neither  the  beauty  nor 
the  ugliness,  —  but  only  the  colored  pebbles,  looking 
as  if  the  gush  of  the  waters  shook  and  disarranged 
them.  And  the  dark  face,  that  so  troubled  Clifford, 
was  no  more  than  the  shadow  thrown  from  a  branch 
of  one  of  the  damson-trees,  and  breaking  the  inner 
light  of  Maule's  well.  The  truth  was,  however,  that 
his  fancy  —  reviving  faster  than  his  will  and  judg- 
ment, and  always  stronger  than  they  —  created  shapes 
of  loveliness  that  were  symbolic  of  his  native  charac- 
ter, and  now  and  then  a  stern  and  dreadful  shape  that 
typified  his  fate. 

On  Sundays,  after  Phoebe  had  been  at  church,  — 
for  the  girl  had  a  church-going  conscience,  and  would 
hardly  have  been  at  ease  had  she  missed  either  prayer, 
singing,  sermon,  or  benediction,  —  after  church-timei 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  187 

therefore,  there  was,  ordinarily,  a  sober  little  festival 
in  the  garden.  In  addition  to  Clifford,  Hepzibah,  and 
Phoebe,  two  guests  made  up  the  company.  One  was 
the  artist,  Holgrave,  who,  in  spite  of  his  consociation 
with  reformers,  and  his  other  queer  and  questionable 
traits,  continued  to  hold  an  elevated  place  in  Hepzi- 
bah's  regard.  The  other,  we  are  almost  ashamed  to 
aay,  was  the  venerable  Uncle  Venner,  in  a  clean  shirt, 
and  a  broadcloth  coat,  more  respectable  than  his  or- 
dinary wear,  inasmuch  as  it  was  neatly  patched  on 
each  elbow,  and  might  be  called  an  entire  garment, 
except  for  a  slight  inequality  in  the  length  of  its 
skirts.  Clifford,  on  several  occasions,  had  seemed  to 
enjoy  the  old  man's  intercourse,  for  the  sake  of  his 
mellow,  cheerful  vein,  which  was  like  the  sweet  flavor 
of  a  frost-bitten  apple,  such  as  one  picks  up  under  the 
tree  in  December.  A  man  at  the  very  lowest  point  of 
the  social  scale  was  easier  and  more  agreeable  for  the 
fallen  gentleman  to  encounter  than  a  person  at  any 
of  the  intermediate  degrees ;  and,  moreover,  as  Clif- 
ford's young  manhood  had  been  lost,  he  was  fond  of 
feeling  himself  comparatively  youthful,  now,  in  appo- 
sition with  the  patriarchal  age  of  Uncle  Venner.  In 
fact,  it  was  sometimes  observable  that  Clifford  half 
wilfully  hid  from  himself  the  consciousness  of  being 
stricken  in  years,  and  cherished  visions  of  an  earthly 
future  still  before  him;  visions,  however,  too  indis- 
tinctly drawn  to  be  followed  by  disappointment -»- 
though,  doubtless,  by  depression  —  when  any  casual 
incident  or  recollection  made  him  sensible  of  the  with- 
ered leaf. 

So  this  oddly  composed  little  social  party  used  to  as- 
semble under  the  ruinous  arbor.  Hepzibah  —  stately 
as  ever  at  heart,  and  yielding  not  an  inch  of  her  old 


188       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

gentility,  but  resting  upon  it  so  much  the  more,  as  jus- 
tifying a  princess-like  condescension  —  exhibited  a  not 
ungraceful  hospitality.  She  talked  kindly  to  the  va- 
grant artist,  and  took  sage  counsel  —  lady  as  she  was 
—  with  the  wood-sawyer,  the  messenger  of  everybody's 
petty  errands,  the  patched  philosopher.  And  Uncle 
Venner,  who  had  studied  the  world  at  street-corners, 
and  other  posts  equally  well  adapted  for  just  observa- 
tion, was  as  ready  to  give  out  his  wisdom  as  a  town- 
pump  to  give  water. 

"  Miss  Hepzibah,  ma'am,"  said  he  once,  after  they 
had  all  been  cheerful  together,  "  I  really  enjoy  these 
quiet  little  meetings  of  a  Sabbath  afternoon.  They 
are  very  much  like  what  I  expect  to  have  after  I  retire 
to  my  farm  !  " 

"  Uncle  Venner,"  observed  Clifford,  in  a  drowsy,  in- 
ward tone,  "  is  always  talking  about  his  farm.  But  I 
have  a  better  scheme  for  him,  by  and  by.  We  shall 
seel" 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Clifford  Pyncheon  I  "  said  the  man  of 
patches,  "you  may  scheme  for  me  as  much  as  you 
please ;  but  I  'm  not  going  to  give  up  this  one  scheme 
of  my  own,  even  if  I  never  bring  it  really  to  pass.  It 
does  seem  to  me  that  men  make  a  wonderful  mistake 
in  trying  to  heap  up  property  upon  property.  If  I  had 
done  so,  I  should  feel  as  if  Providence  was  not  bound 
to  take  care  of  me ;  and,  at  all  events,  the  city  wouldn't 
be  !  I  'm  one  of  those  people  who  think  that  infinity 
is  big  enough  for  us  all  —  and  eternity  long  enough." 

"  Why,  so  they  are,  Uncle  Venner,"  remarked 
Phcabe,  after  a  pause;  for  she  had  been  trying  to 
fathom  the  profundity  and  appositeness  of  this  con- 
cluding apothegm.  "  But  for  this  short  life  of  ours, 
one  would  like  a  house  and  a  moderate  garden-spot  of 
one's  own." 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  189 

**  It  appears  to  me,"  said  the  daguerreotypist,  smil- 
ing, "  that  Uncle  Venner  has  the  principles  of  Fourier 
at  the  bottom  of  his  wisdom  ;  only  they  have  not  quite 
so  much  distinctness,  in  his  mind  as  in  that  of  the  sys- 
tematizing Frenchman." 

"  Come,  Phoebe,1'  said  Hepzibah,  "  it  is  time  to  bring 
the  currants." 

And  then,  while* the  yellow  richness  of  the  declining 
sunshine  still  fell  into  the  open  space  of  the  garden, 
Phoebe  brought  out  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  china  bowl  of 
currants,  freshly  gathered  from  the  bushes,  and  crushed 
with  sugar.  These,  with  water,  —  but  not  from  the 
fountain  of  ill  omen,  close  at  hand,  —  constituted  all 
the  entertainment.  Meanwhile,  Holgrave  took  some 
pains  to  establish  an  intercourse  with  Clifford,  actuated 
it  might  seem,  entirely  by  an  impulse  of  kindliness,  in 
order  that  the  present  hour  might  be  cheerfuller  than 
most  which  the  poor  recluse  had  spent,  or  was  destined 
yet  to  spend.  Nevertheless,  in  the  artist's  deep, 
thoughtful,  all-observant  eyes,  there  was,  now  and  then, 
an  expression,  not  sinister,  but  questionable  ;  as  if  he 
had  some  other  interest  in  the  scene  than  a  stranger,  a 
youthful  and  unconnected  adventurer,  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have.  With  great  mobility  of  outward  mood, 
however,  he  applied  himself  to  the  task  of  enlivening 
the  party  ;  and  with  so  much  success,  that  even  (lark- 
Wed  Hepzibah  threw  off  one  tint  of  melancholy,  and 
made  what  shift  she  could  with  the  remaining  portion. 
Phoebe  said  to  herself,  —  "  How  pleasant  he  can  be !  " 
As  for  Uncle  Venner,  as  a  mark  of  friendship  and  ap- 
probation, he  readily  consented  to  afford  the  young 
man  his  countenance  in  the  way  of  his  profession,  — 
not  metaphorically,  be  it  understood,  but  literally,  by 
allowing  a  daguerreotype  of  his  face,  so  familiar  to  the 


190      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

town,  to  be  exhibited  at  the  entrance  of  Holgrave'i 
studio. 

Clifford,  as  the  company  partook  of  their  little  ban- 
quet, grew  to  be  the  gayest  of  them  all.  Either  it  was 
one  of  those  up-quivering  flashes  of  the  spirit,  to  which 
minds  in  an  abnormal  state  are  liable,  or  else  the  ar- 
tist had  subtly  touched  some  chord  that  made  musical 
vibration.  Indeed,  what  with  the  pleasant  summer 
evening,  and  the  sympathy  of  this  little  circle  of  not 
unkindly  souls,  it  was  perhaps  natural  that  a  character 
so  susceptible  as  Clifford's  should  become  animated, 
and  show  itself  readily  responsive  to  what  was  said 
around  him.  But  he  gave  out  his  own  thoughts,  like- 
wise, with  an  airy  and  fanciful  glow ;  so  that  they  glis- 
tened, as  it  were,  through  the  arbor,  and  made  their 
escape  among  the  interstices  of  the  foliage.  He  had 
been  as  cheerful,  no  doubt,  while  alone  with  Phoebe, 
but  never  with  such  tokens  of  acute,  although  partial 
intelligence. 

But,  as  the  sunlight  left  the  peaks  of  the  Seven  Ga- 
bles, so  did  the  excitement  fade  out  of  Clifford's  eyes. 
He  gazed  vaguely  and  mournfully  about  him,  as  if  he 
missed  something  precious,  and  missed  it  the  more 
drearily  for  not  knowing  precisely  what  it  was. 

"  I  want  my  happiness !  "  at  last  he  murmured, 
hoarsely  and  indistinctly,  hardly  shaping  out  the  words. 
"  Many,  many  years  have  I  waited  for  it !  It  is  late ! 
It  is  late  !  I  want  my  happiness !  " 

Alas,  poor  Clifford !  You  are  old,  and  worn  with 
troubles  that  ought  never  to  have  befallen  you.  You 
are  partly  crazy  and  partly  imbecile ;  a  ruin,  a  failure, 
as  almost  everybody  is,  —  though  some  in  less  degree, 
or  less  perceptibly,  than  their  fellows.  Fate  has  no 
happiness  in  store  for  you;  unless  your  quiet  home  in 


THE  PYNCHEON  GARDEN.  191 

the  old  family  residence  with  the  faithful  Hepzibah, 
and  your  long  summer  afternoons  with  Phoebe,  and 
these  Sabbath  festivals  with  Uncle  Venner  and  the 
daguerreotypist,  deserve  to  be  called  happiness  !  Why 
not  ?  If  not  the  thing  itself,  it  is  marvellously  like  it, 
and  the  more  so  for  that  ethereal  and  intangible  qual- 
ity which  causes  it  all  to  vanish  at  too  close  an  intro- 
spection. Take  it,  therefore,  while  you  may  !  Mur- 
mur not.  —  question  not,  —  but  make  the  most  of  it  f 


XI. 

THE  ARCHED  WINDOW. 

FROM  the  inertness,  or  what  we  may  term  the 
tative  character,  of  his  ordinary  mood,  Clifford  would 
perhaps  have  been  content  to  spend  one  day  after  an- 
other, interminably,  —  or,  at  least,  throughout  the 
summer-time,  —  in  just  the  kind  of  life  described  in 
the  preceding  pages.  Fancying,  however,  that  it  might 
be  for  his  benefit  occasionally  to  diversify  the  scene, 
Phoebe  sometimes  suggested  that  he  should  look  out 
upon  the  life  of  the  street.  For  this  purpose,  they 
used  to  mount  the  staircase  together,  to  the  second 
story  of  the  house,  where,  at  the  termination  of  a  wide 
entry,  there  was  an  arched  window  of  uncommonly 
large  dimensions,  shaded  by  a  pair  of  curtains.  It 
opened  above  the  porch,  where  there  had  formerly 
been  a  balcony,  the  balustrade  of  which  had  long  since 
gone  to  decay,  and  been  removed.  At  this  arched 
window,  throwing  it  open,  but  keeping  himself  in  com- 
parative obscurity  by  means  of  the  curtain,  Clifford 
had  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  such  a  portion  of  the 
great  world's  movement  a§  might  be  supposed  to  roll 
through  one  of  the  retired  streets  of  a  not  very  popu- 
lous city.  But  he  and  Phoebe  made  a  sight  as  well 
worth  seeing  as  any  that  the  city  could  exhibit.  The 
pale,  gray,  childish,  aged,  melancholy,  yet  often  simply 
cheerful,  and  sometimes  delicately  intelligent  aspect 
ot'  Clifford,  peering  from  behind  the  faded  crimson  of 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  193 

the  curtain,  —  watching  the  monotony  of  every-day 
occurrences  with  a  kind  of  inconsequential  interest  and 
earnestness,  and,  at  every  petty  throb  of  his  sensibil- 
ity, turning  for  sympathy  to  the  eyes  of  the  bright 
young  girl ! 

If  once  he  were  fairly  seated  at  the  window,  even 
Pyncheon  Street  would  hardly  be  so  dull  and  lonely 
but  that,  somewhere  or  other  along  its  extent,  Clifford 
might  discover  matter  to  occupy  his  eye,  and  titillate, 
if  not  engross,  his  observation.  Things  familiar  to 
the  youngest  child  that  had  begun  its  outlook  at  ex- 
istence seemed  strange  to  him.  A  cab  ;  an  omnibus, 
with  its  populous  interior,  dropping  here  and  there  a 
passenger,  and  picking  up  another,  and  thus  typifying 
that  vast  rolling  vehicle,  the  world,  the  end  of  whose 
journey  is  everywhere  and  nowhere ;  these  objects  he 
followed  eagerly  with  his  eyes,  but  forgot  them  before 
the  dust  raised  by  the  horses  and  wheels  had  settled 
along  their  track.  As  regarded  novelties  (among 
which  cabs  and  omnibuses  were  to  be  reckoned),  his 
mind  appeared  to  have  lost  its  proper  gripe  and  reten- 
tiveness.  Twice  or  thrice,  for  example,  during  the 
sunny  hours  of  the  day,  a  water-cart  went  along  by 
the  Pyncheon  House,  leaving  a  broad  wake  of  mois- 
tened earth,  instead  of  the  white  dust  that  had  risen 
at  a  lady's  lightest  footfall;  it  was  like  a  summer 
shower,  which  the  city  authorities  had  caught  and 
tamed,  and  compelled  it  into  the  commonest  routine 
of  their  convenience.  With  the  water-cart  Clifford 
could  never  grow  familiar;  it  always  affected  him 
with  just  the  same  surprise  as  at  first.  His  mind  took 
an  apparently  sharp  impression  from  it,  but  lost  the 
recollection  of  this  perambulatory  shower,  before  its 
next  reappearance,  as  completely  as  did  the  street  it- 

VOL  ui.  18 


194      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

self,  along  which  the  heat  so  quickly  strewed  white 
dust  again.  It  was  the  same  with  the  railroad.  Clif- 
ford could  hear  the  obstreperous  howl  of  the  steam- 
devil,  and,  by  leaning  a  little  way  from  the  arched 
window,  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  trains  of  cars, 
flashing  a  brief  transit  across  the  extremity  of  the 
street.  The  idea  of  terrible  energy  thus  forced  upon 
him  was  new  at  every  recurrence,  and  seemed  to  affect 
him  as  disagreeably,  and  with  almost  as  much  surprise, 
the  hundredth  tune  as  the  first. 

Nothing  gives  a  sadder  sense  of  decay  than  this  loss 
or  suspension  of  the  power  to  deal  with  unaccustomed 
things,  and  to  keep  up  with  the  swiftness  of  the  pass- 
ing moment.  It  can  merely  be  a  suspended  anima- 
tion ;  for,  were  the  power  actually  to  perish,  there 
would  be  little  use  of  immortality.  We  are  less  than 
ghosts,  for  the  time  being,  whenever  this  calamity  be- 
falls us. 

Clifford  was  indeed  the  most  inveterate  of  conserva- 
tives. All  the  antique  fashions  of  the  street  were  dear 
to  him ;  even  such  as  were  characterized  by  a  rude- 
ness that  would  naturally  have  annoyed  his  fastidious 
senses.  He  loved  the  old  rumbling  and  jolting  carts, 
the  former  track  of  which  he  still  found  in  his  long- 
buried  remembrance,  as  the  observer  of  to-day  finds 
the  wheel-tracks  of  ancient  vehicles  in  Herculaneuin. 
The  butcher's  cart,  with  its  snowy  canopy,  was  an  ac- 
ceptable object ;  so  was  the  fish-cart,  heralded  by  its 
horn  ;  so,  likewise,  was  the  countryman's  cart  of  vege- 
tables, plodding  from  door  to  door,  with  long  pauses 
of  the  patient  horse,  while  his  owner  drove  a  trade  in 
turnips,  carrots,  summer-squashes,  string-beans,  green 
peas,  and  new  potatoes,  with  half  the  housewives  of 
the  neighborhood.  The  baker's  cart,  with  the  harsh 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  195 

music  of  its  bells,  had  a  pleasant  effect  on  Clifford,  bo- 
cause,  as  few  things  else  did,  it  jingled  the  very  dis- 
sonance of  yore.  One  afternoon  a  scissor  -  grinder 
chanced  to  set  his  wheel  a-going  under  the  Pyncheon 
Elm,  and  just  in  front  of  the  arched  window.  Children 
came  running  with  their  mothers'  scissors,  or  the  carv» 
ing-knife,  or  the  paternal  razor,  or  anything  else  that 
lacked  an  edge  (except,  indeed,  poor  Clifford's  wits)^ 
that  the  grinder  might  apply  the  article  to  his  magic 
wheel,  and  give  it  back  as  good  as  new.  Round  went 
the  busily  revolving  machinery,  kept  in  motion  by  the 
scissor -grinder's  foot,  and  wore  away  the  hard  steel 
against  the  hard  stone,  whence  issued  an  intense  and 
spiteful  prolongation  of  a  hiss  as  fierce  as  those  emitted 
by  Satan  and  his  compeers  in  Pandemonium,  though 
squeezed  into  smaller  compass.  It  was  an  ugly,  little, 
venomous  serpent  of  a  noise,  as  ever  did  petty  violence 
to  human  ears.  But  Clifford  listened  with  rapturous 
delight.  The  sound,  however  disagreeable,  had  very 
brisk  life  in  it,  and,  together  with  the  circle  of  curious 
children  watching  the  revolutions  of  the  wheel,  ap- 
peared to  give  him  a  more  vivid  sense  of  active,  bust- 
ling, and  sunshiny  existence  than  he  had  attained  in 
almost  any  other  way.  Nevertheless,  its  charm  lay 
chiefly  in  the  past ;  for  the  scissor-grinder's  wheel  had 
hissed  in  his  childish  ears. 

He  sometimes  made  doleful  complaint  that  there 
were  no  stage-coaches  nowadays.  And  he  asked  in  an 
injured  tone  what  had  become  of  all  those  old  square- 
top  chaises,  with  wings  sticking  out  on  either  side, 
that  used  to  be  drawn  by  a  plough-horse,  and  driven 
by  a  farmer's  wife  and  daughter,  peddling  whortle- 
berries and  blackberries  about  the  town.  Their  dis- 
appearance made  nim  doubt,  he  said,  whether  the 


196       THE  BOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ries  had  not  left  off  growing  in  the  broad  pastures  and 
along  the  shady  country  lanes. 

But  anything  that  appealed  to  the  sense  of  beauty, 
in  however  humble  a  way,  did  not  require  to  be  recom- 
mended by  these  old  associations.  This  was  observa- 
ble when  one  of  those  Italian  boys  (who  are  rather  a 
modern  feature  of  our  streets)  came  along  with  his 
barrel-organ,  and  stopped  under  the  wide  and  cool 
shadows  of  the  elm.  With  his  quick  professional  eye 
he  took  note  of  the  two  faces  watching  him  from  the 
arched  window,  and,  opening  his  instrument,  began  to 
scatter  its  melodies  abroad.  He  had  a  monkey  on  his 
shoulder,  dressed  in  a  Highland  plaid ;  and,  to  com- 
plete the  sum  of  splendid  attractions  wherewith  he 
presented  himself  to  the  public,  there  was  a  company 
of  little  figures,  whose  sphere  and  habitation  was  in 
the  mahogany  case  of  his  organ,  and  whose  principle 
of  life  was  the  music  which  the  Italian  made  it  his 
business  to  grind  out.  In  all  their  variety  of  occupa- 
tion,—  the  cobbler,  the  blacksmith,  the  soldier,  the 
lady  with  her  fan,  the  toper  with  his  bottle,  the  milk- 
maid sitting  by  her  cow,  —  this  fortunate  little  society 
might  truly  be  said  to  enjoy  a  harmonious  existence, 
and  to  make  life  literally  a  dance.  The  Italian  turned 
a  crank ;  and,  behold !  every  one  of  these  small  indi- 
viduals started  into  the  most  curious  vivacity.  The 
cobbler  wrought  upon  a  shoe;  the  blacksmith  ham- 
mered his  iron ;  the  soldier  waved  his  glittering  blade  ; 
the  lady  raised  a  tiny  breeze  with  her  fan ;  the  jolly 
toper  swigged  lustily  at  his  bottle ;  a  scholar  opened 
his  book  with  eager  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  turned 
his  head  to  and  fro  along  the  page ;  the  milkmaid  en- 
ergetically drained  her  cow ;  and  a  miser  counted  gold 
into  his  strong-box,  —  all  at  the  same  turning  of  a 


THE  ARCHED  WINDOW.  197 

crank.  Yes;  and,  moved  by  the  self -same  impulse, 
a  lover  saluted  his  mistress  on  her  lips !  Possibly 
some  cynic,  at  once  merry  and  bitter,  had  desired  to 
signify,  in  this  pantomimic  scene,  that  we  mortals, 
whatever  our  business  or  amusement,  —  however  seri- 
ous, however  trifling,  —  all  dance  to  one  identical 
tune,  and,  in  spite  of  our  ridiculous  activity,  bring 
nothing  finally  to  pass.  For  the  most  remarkable 
aspect  of  the  affair  was,  that,  at  the  cessation  of  the 
music,  everybody  was  petrified,  at  once,  from  the  most 
extravagant  life  into  a  dead  torpor.  Neither  was  the 
cobbler's  shoe  finished,  nor  the  blacksmith's  iron 
shaped  out ;  nor  was  there  a  drop  less  of  brandy  in 
the  toper's  bottle,  nor  a  drop  more  of  milk  in  the 
milkmaid's  pail,  nor  one  additional  coin  in  the  miser's 
strong-box,  nor  was  the  scholar  a  page  deeper  in  his 
book.  All  were  precisely  in  the  same  condition  as 
before  they  made  themselves  so  ridiculous  by  their 
haste  to  toil,  to  enjoy,  to  accumulate  gold,  and  to  be- 
come wise.  Saddest  of  all,  moreover,  the  lover  was 
none  the  happier  for  the  maiden's  granted  kiss !  But, 
rather  than  swallow  this  last  too  acrid  ingredient,  we 
reject  the  whole  moral  of  the  show. 

The  monkey,  meanwhile,  with  a  thick  tail  curling 
out  into  preposterous  prolixity  from  beneath  his  tar- 
tans, took  his  station  at  the  Italian's  feet.  He  turned 
a  wrinkled  and  abominable  little  visage  to  every  pass- 
er-by, and  to  the  circle  of  children  that  soon  gathered 
round,  and  to  Hepzibah's  shop-door,  and  upward  to 
the  arched  window,  whence  Phrabe  and  Clifford  were 
looking  down.  Every  moment,  also,  he  took  off  his 
Highland  bonnet,  and  performed  a  bow  and  scrape. 
Sometimes,  moreover,  he  made  personal  application  to 
individuals,  holding  out  his  small  black  palm,  and 


198      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

otherwise  plainly  signifying  his  excessive  desire  foi 
whatever  filthy  lucre  might  happen  to  be  in  anybody's 
pocket.  The  mean  and  low,  yet  strangely  man-like 
expression  of  his  wilted  countenance ;  the  prying  and 
crafty  glance,  that  showed  him  ready  to  gripe  at  every 
miserable  advantage ;  his  enormous  tail  (too  enormous 
to  be  decently  concealed  under  his  gabardine),  and 
the  deviltry  of  nature  which  it  betokened,  —  take  this 
monkey  just  as  he  was,  in  short,  and  you  could  desire 
no  better  image  of  the  Mammon  of  copper  coin,  sym- 
bolizing the  grossest  form  of  the  love  of  money. 
Neither  was  there  any  possibility  of  satisfying  the 
covetous  little  devil.  Phrebe  threw  down  a  whole 
handful  of  cents,  which  he  picked  up  with  joyless 
eagerness,  handed  them  over  to  the  Italian  for  safe- 
keeping, and  immediately  recommenced  a  series  of 
pantomimic  petitions  for  more. 

Doubtless,  more  than  one  New-Englander  —  or,  let 
him  be  of  what  country  he  might,  it  is  as  likely  to  be 
the  case  —  passed  by,  and  threw  a  look  at  the  monkey, 
and  went  on,  without  imagining  how  nearly  his  own 
moral  condition  was  here  exemplified.  Clifford,  how- 
ever, was  a  being  of  another  order.  He  had  taken 
childish  delight  in  the  music,  and  smiled,  too,  at  the 
figures  which  it  set  in  motion.  But,  after  looking  a 
while  at  the  long-tailed  imp,  he  was  so  shocked  by  his 
horrible  ugliness,  spiritual  as  well  as  physical,  that  he 
actually  began  to  shed  tears ;  a  weakness  which  men 
of  merely  delicate  endowments,  and  destitute  of  the 
fiercer,  deeper,  and  more  tragic  power  of  laughter,  can 
hardly  avoid,  when  the  worst  and  meanest  aspect  of 
life  happens  to  be  presented  to  them. 

Pyncheon  Street  was  sometimes  enlivened  by  spec* 
tacles  of  more  imposing  pretensions  than  the  above, 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  199 

and  which  brought  the  multitude  along  with  them, 
With  a  shivering  repugnance  at  the  idea  of  personal 
contact  with  the  world,  a  powerful  impulse  still  seized 
on  Clifford,  whenever  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  human 
tide  grew  strongly  audible  to  him.  This  was  made 
evident,  one  day,  when  a  political  procession,  with 
hundreds  of  flaunting  banners,  and  drums,  fifes,  clari- 
ons, and  cymbals,  reverberating  between  the  rows  of 
buildings,  marched  all  through  town,  and  trailed  its 
length  of  trampling  footsteps,  and  most  infrequent 
uproar,  past  the  ordinarily  quiet  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables.  As  a  mere  object  of  sight,  nothing  is  more 
deficient  in  picturesque  features  than  a  procession  seen 
in  its  passage  through  narrow  streets.  The  spectator 
feels  it  to  be  fool's  play,  when  he  can  distinguish  the 
tedious  commonplace  of  each  man's  visage,  with  the 
perspiration  and  weary  self-importance  on  it,  and  the 
very  cut  of  his  pantaloons,  and  the  stiffness  or  laxity 
of  his  shirt-collar,  and  the  dust  on  the  back  of  his 
black  coat.  In  order  to  become  majestic,  it  should  be 
viewed  from  some  vantage  point,  as  it  rolls  its  slow 
and  long  array  through  the  centre  of  a  wide  plain,  or 
the  stateliest  public  square  of  a  city ;  for  then,  by  its 
remoteness,  it  melts  all  the  petty  personalities,  of 
which  it  is  made  up,  into  one  broad  mass  of  existence, 
—  one  great  life,  —  one  collected  body  of  mankind, 
with  a  vast,  homogeneous  spirit  animating  it.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  if  an  impressible  person,  standing 
alone  over  the  brink  of  one  of  these  processions,  should 
behold  it,  not  in  its  atoms,  but  in  its  aggregate,  —  as 
a  mighty  river  of  life,  massive  in  its  tide,  and  black 
with  mystery,  and,  out  of  its  depths,  calling  to  the  kin- 
dred depth  within  him,  —  then  the  contiguity  would 
add  to  the  effect.  It  might  so  fascinate  him  that  he 


200     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

would  hardly  be  restrained  from  plunging  into  the 
surging  stream  of  human  sympathies. 

So  it  proved  with  Clifford.  He  shuddered ;  he  grew 
pale;  he  threw  an  appealing  look  at  Hepzibah  and 
Phoebe,  who  were  with  him  at  the  window.  They 
comprehended  nothing  of  his  emotions,  and  supposed 
him  merely  disturbed  by  the  unaccustomed  tumult 
At  last,  with  tremulous  limbs,  he  started  up,  set  his 
foot  on  the  window-sill,  and  in  an  instant  more  would 
have  been  in  the  unguarded  balcony.  As  it  was,  the 
whole  procession  might  have  seen  him,  a  wild,  haggard 
figure,  his  gray  locks  floating  in  the  wind  that  waved 
their  banners ;  a  lonely  being,  estranged  from  his 
race,  but  now  feeling  himself  man  again,  by  virtue  of 
the  irrepressible  instinct  that  possessed  him.  Had 
Clifford  attained  the  balcony,  he  would  probably  have 
leaped  into  the  street;  but  whether  impelled  by  the 
species  of  terror  that  sometimes  urges  its  victim  over 
the  very  precipice  which  he  shrinks  from,  or  by  a 
natural  magnetism,  tending  towards  the  great  centre 
of  humanity,  it  were  not  easy  to  decide.  Both  im- 
pulses might  have  wrought  on  him  at  once. 

But  his  companions,  affrighted  by  his  gesture,  — • 
which  was  that  of  a  man  hurried  away  in  spite  of 
himself,  —  seized  Clifford's  garment  and  held  him 
back.  Hepzibah  shrieked.  Phoebe,  to  whom  all  ex- 
travagance was  a  horror,  burst  into  sobs  and  tears. 

"  Clifford,  Clifford !  are  you  crazy  ? "  cried  his 
sister. 

"  I  hardly  know,  Hepzibah,"  said  Clifford,  drawing 
a  long  breath.  "  Fear  nothing,  —  it  is  over  now,  — - 
but  had  I  taken  that  plunge,  and  survived  it,  methinks 
it  would  have  made  me  another  man  !  " 

Possibly,  in  some  sense,   Clifford  may  have  beep 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  201 

right.  He  needed  a  shock  ;  or  perhaps  he  required  to 
take  a  deep,  deep  plunge  into  the  ocean  of  human  life, 
and  to  sink  down  and  be  covered  by  its  profoundness.; 
and  then  to  emerge,  sobered,  invigorated,  restored  to 
the  world  and  to  himself.  Perhaps,  again,  he  required 
nothing  less  than  the  great  final  remedy  —  death ! 

A  similar  yearning  to  renew  the  broken  links  of 
brotherhood  with  his  kind  sometimes  showed  itself  in 
a  milder  form ;  and  once  it  was  made  beautiful  by  the 
religion  that  lay  even  deeper  than  itself.  In  the  inci- 
dent now  to  be  sketched,  there  was  a  touching  recogni- 
tion, on  Clifford's  part,  of  God's  care  and  love  towards 
him,  —  towards  this  poor,  forsaken  man,  who,  if  any 
mortal  could,  might  have  been  pardoned  for  regarding 
himself  as  thrown  aside,  forgotten,  and  left  to  be  the 
sport  of  some  fiend,  whose  playfulness  was  an  ecstasy 
of  mischief. 

It  was  the  Sabbath  morning ;  one  of  those  bright, 
calm  Sabbaths,  with  its  own  hallowed  atmosphere, 
when  Heaven  seems  to  diffuse  itself  over  the  earth's 
face  in  a  solemn  smile,  no  less  sweet  than  solemn.  On 
such  a  Sabbath  morn,  were  we  pure  enough  to  be  its 
medium,  we  should  be  conscious  of  the  earth's  natural 
worship  ascending  through  our  frames,  on  whatever 
spot  of  ground  we  stood.  The  church-bells,  with  va- 
rious tones,  but  all  in  harmony,  were  calling  out,  and 
responding  to  one  another,  —  "  It  is  the  Sabbath  !  — 
The  Sabbath !— Yea ;  the  Sabbath!"—  and  over 
the  whole  city  the  bells  scattered  the  blessed  sounds, 
now  slowly,  now  with  livelier  joy,  now  one  bell  alone, 
now  all  the  bells  together,  crying  earnestly,  —  "  It  is 
the  Sabbath !  "  and  flinging  their  accents  afar  off,  to 
melt  into  the  air,  and  pervade  it  with  the  holy  word. 
The  air,  with  God's  sweetest  and  tenderest  sunshine 


202      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

in  it,  was  meet  for  mankind  to  breathe  into  theii 
hearts,  and  send  it  forth  again  as  the  utterance  of 
prayer. 

Clifford  sat  at  the  window  with  Hepzibah,  watching 
the  neighbors  as  they  stepped  into  the  street.  All  of 
them,  however  unspiritual  on  other  days,  were  transfig- 
ured by  the  Sabbath  influence  ;  so  that  their  very  gar- 
ments —  whether  it  were  an  old  man's  decent  coat  well 
bnished  for  the  thousandth  time,  or  a  little  boy's  first 
sack  and  trousers  finished  yesterday  by  his  mother's 
needle  —  had  somewhat  of  the  quality  of  ascension- 
robes.  Forth,  likewise,  from  the  portal  of  the  old 
house,  stepped  Phoebe,  putting  up  her  small  green  sun- 
shade, and  throwing  upward  a  glance  and  smile  of 
parting  kindness  to  the  faces  at  the  arched  window, 
In  her  aspect  there  was  a  familiar  gladness,  and  a  ho- 
liness that  you  could  play  with,  and  yet  reverence  it 
as  much  as  ever.  She  was  like  a  prayer,  offered  up  in 
the  homeliest  beauty  of  one's  mother-tongue.  Fresh 
was  Phoebe,  moreover,  and  airy  and  sweet  in  her  ap 
parel ;  as  if  nothing  that  she  wore  —  neither  her 
gown,  nor  her  small  straw  bonnet,  nor  her  little  ker- 
chief, any  more  than  her  snowy  stockings  —  had  ever 
been  put  on  before  ;  or,  if  worn,  were  all  the  fresher 
for  it,  and  with  a  fragrance  as  if  they  had  lain  among 
the  rose-buds. 

The  girl  waved  her  hand  to  Hepzibah  and  Clifford, 
and  went  up  the  street ;  a  religion  in  herself,  warm, 
simple,  true,  with  a  substance  that  could  walk  on  earth, 
and  a  spirit  that  was  capable  of  heaven. 

"  Hepzibah,"  asked  Clifford,  after  watching  Phoebe 
to  the  corner,  "  do  you  never  go  to  church  ?  " 

"  No,  Clifford !  "  she  replied,  —  "  not  these  many, 
many  years  1 " 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  203 

"  Were  I  to  be  there,"  he  rejoined,  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  could  pray  once  more,  when  so  many  human 
souls  were  praying  all  around  me !  " 

She  looked  into  Clifford's  face,  and  beheld  there  a 
soft  natural  effusion ;  for  his  heart  gushed  out,  as  it 
were,  and  ran  over  at  his  eyes,  in  delightful  reverence 
for  God,  and  kindly  affection  for  his  human  brethren 
The  emotion  communicated  itself  to  Hepzibah.  She 
yearned  to  take  him  by  the  hand,  and  go  and  kneel 
down,  they  two  together,  —  both  so  long  separate  from 
the  world,  and,  as  she  now  recognized,  scarcely  friends 
with  Him  above,  —  to  kneel  down  among  the  people, 
and  be  reconciled  to  God  and  man  at  once. 

"  Dear  brother,"  said  she,  earnestly,  "  let  us  go ! 
We  belong  nowhere.  We  have  not  a  foot  of  space  in 
any  church  to  kneel  upon  ;  but  let  us  go  to  some  place 
of  worship,  even  if  we  stand  in  the  broad  aisle.  Poor 
and  forsaken  as  we  are,  some  pew-door  will  be  opened 
to  us!" 

So  Hepzibah  and  her  brother  made  themselves 
ready,  —  as  ready  as  they  could  in  the  best  of  their 
old-fashioned  garments,  which  had  hung  on  pegs,  or 
been  laid  away  in  trunks,  so  long  that  the  dampness 
and  mouldy  smell  of  the  past  was  on  them,  —  made 
themselves  ready,  in  their  faded  bettermost,  to  go  to 
church.  They  descended  the  staircase  together,  — 
gaunt,  sallow  Hepzibah,  and  pale,  emaciated,  age- 
stricken  Clifford !  They  pulled  open  the  front  door, 
and  stepped  across  the  threshold,  and  felt,  both  of 
them,  as  if  they  were  standing  in  the  presence  of  the 
whole  world,  and  with  mankind's  great  and  terrible 
eye  on  them  alone.  The  eye  of  their  Father  seemed 
to  be  withdrawn,  and  gave  them  no  encouragement. 
The  warm  sunny  air  of  the  street  made  them  shiveiL 


204     THE   BOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Their  hearts  quaked  within  them  at  the  idea  of  taking 
one  step  farther. 

"  It  cannot  be,  Hepzibah !  —  it  is  too  late,"  said 
Clifford,  with  deep  sadness.  "  We  are  ghosts !  We 
have  no  right  among  human  beings,  —  no  right  any^ 
where  but  in  this  old  house,  which  has  a  curse  on  it5 
and  which,  therefore,  we  are  doomed  to  haunt !  And,, 
besides,"  he  continued,  with  a  fastidious  sensibility^ 
inalienably  characteristic  of  the  man,  "  it  would  not 
be  fit  nor  beautiful  to  go  !  It  is  an  ugly  thought  that 
I  should  be  frightful  to  my  fellow-beings,  and  that 
children  would  cling  to  their  mothers'  gowns  at  sight 
of  me!" 

They  shrank  back  into  the  dusky  passage-way,  and 
closed  the  door.  But,  going  up  the  staircase  again, 
they  found  the  whole  interior  of  the  house  tenfold 
more  dismal,  and  the  air  closer  and  heavier,  for  the 
glimpse  and  breath  of  freedom  which  they  had  just 
snatched.  They  could  not  flee ;  their  jailer  had  but 
left  the  door  ajar  in  mockery,  and  stood  behind  it  to 
watch  them  stealing  out.  At  the  threshold,  they  felt 
his  pitiless  gripe  upon  them.  For,  what  other  dungeon 
is  so  dark  as  one's  own  heart !  What  jailer  so  inexor- 
able as  one's  self ! 

But  it  would  be  no  fair  picture  of  Clifford's  state  of 
mind  were  we  to  represent  him  as  continually  or  pre- 
vailingly wretched.  On  the  contrary,  there  was  no 
other  man  in  the  city,  we  are  bold  to  affirm,  of  so  much 
as  half  his  years,  who  enjoyed  so  many  lightsome  and 
griefless  moments  as  himself.  He  had  no  burden  of 
care  upon  him ;  there  were  none  of  those  questions  and 
contingencies  with  the  future  to  be  settled  which  weai 
away  all  other  lives,  and  render  them  not  worth  having 
by  the  very  process  of  providing  for  their  support.  In 


THE  ARCHED   WINDOW.  205 

this  respect  he  was  a  child,  —  a  child  for  the  whole 
term  of  his  existence,  be  it  long  or  short.  Indeed,  his 
life  seemed  to  be  standing  still  at  a  period  little  in  ad« 
vance  of  childhood,  and  to  cluster  all  his  reminiscences 
about  that  epoch  ;  just  as,  after  the  torpor  of  a  heavy 
blow,  the  sufferer's  reviving  consciousness  goes  back  to 
a  moment  considerably  behind  the  accident  that  stupe- 
fied him.  He  sometimes  told  Phoebe  and  Hepzibah 
his  dreams,  in  which  he  invariably  played  the  part  of 
a  child,  or  a  very  young  man.  So  vivid  were  they,  in 
his  relation  of  them,  that  he  once  held  a  dispute  with 
his  sister  as  to  the  particular  figure  or  print  of  a  chintz 
morning-dress,  which  he  had  seen  their  mother  wear, 
in  the  dream  of  the  preceding  night.  Hepzibah,  piqu- 
ing herself  on  a  woman's  accuracy  in  such  matters, 
held  it  to  be  slightly  different  from  what  Clifford  de- 
scribed; but,  producing  the  very  gown  from  an  old 
trunk,  it  proved  to  be  identical  with  his  remembrance 
of  it.  Had  Clifford,  every  time  that  he  emerged  out 
of  dreams  so  lifelike,  undergone  the  torture  of  trans- 
formation from  a  boy  into  an  old  and  broken  man,  the 
daily  recurrence  of  the  shock  would  have  been  too 
much  to  bear.  It  would  have  caused  an  acute  agony 
to  thrill  from  the  morning  twilight,  all  the  day  through, 
until  bedtime  ;  and  even  then  would  have  mingled  a 
dull,  inscrutable  pain,  and  pallid  hue  of  misfortune, 
with  the  visionary  bloom  and  adolescence  of  his  slum- 
ber. But  the  nightly  moonshine  interwove  itself  with 
the  morning  mist,  and  enveloped  him  as  in  a  robe, 
which  he  hugged  about  his  person,  and  seldom  let  re- 
alities pierce  through ;  he  was  not  often  quite  awake, 
but  slept  open-eyed,  and  perhaps  fancied  bin) self  most 
dreaming  then. 

Thus,  lingering  always   so   near  his  childhood,  he 


206      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

had  sympathies  with  children,  and  kept  his  heart  the 
fresher  thereby,  like  a  reservoir  into  which  rivulets 
were  pouring  not  far  from  the  fountain-head.  Though 
prevented,  by  a  subtile  sense  of  propriety,  from  desir- 
ing to  associate  with  them,  he  loved  few  things  better 
than  to  look  out  of  the  arched  window,  and  see  a  little 
girl  driving  her  hoop  along  the  sidewalk,  or  school- 
boys at  a  game  of  ball.  Their  voices,  also,  were  very 
pleasant  to  him,  heard  at  a  distance,  all  swarming  and 
intermingling  together  as  flies  do  in  a  sunny  room. 

Clifford  would,  doubtless,  have  been  glad  to  share 
their  sports.  One  afternoon  he  was  seized  with  an  ir- 
resistible desire  to  blow  soap-bubbles  ;  an  amusement, 
as  Hepzibah  told  Pho3be  apart,  that  had  been  a  favor- 
ite one  with  her  brother  when  they  were  both  children. 
Behold  him,  therefore,  at  the  arched  window,  with  an 
earthen  pipe  in  his  mouth !  Behold  him,  with  his  gray 
hair,  and  a  wan,  unreal  smile  over  his  countenance, 
where  still  hovered  a  beautiful  grace,  which  his  worst 
enemy  must  have  acknowledged  to  be  spiritual  and  im- 
mortal, since  it  had  survived  so  long !  Behold  him, 
scattering  airy  spheres  abroad,  from  the  window  into 
the  street  !  Little  impalpable  worlds  were  those  soap- 
bubbles,  with  the  big  world  depicted,  in  hues  bright  as 
imagination,  on  the  nothing  of  their  surface.  It  was 
curious  to  see  how  the  passers-by  regarded  these  brill- 
iant fantasies,  as  they  came  floating  down,  and  made 
the  dull  atmosphere  imaginative  about  them.  Some 
stopped  to  gaze,  and,  perhaps,  carried  a  pleasant  recol- 
lection of  the  bubbles  onward  as  far  as  the  street-cor- 
ner ;  some  looked  angrily  upward,  as  if  poor  Clifford 
wronged  them  by  setting  an  image  of  beauty  afloat  so 
near  their  dusty  pathway.  A  great  many  put  out 
their  fingers  or  their  walking-sticks  to  touch,  withal : 


THE   ARCHED    WINDOW.  207 

and  were  perversely  gratified,  no  doubt,  when  the  bub- 
ble, with  all  its  pictured  earth  and  sky  scene,  vanished 
as  if  it  had  never  been. 

At  length,  just  as  an  elderly  gentleman  of  very  dig- 
nified  presence  happened  to  be  passing,  a  large  bubble 
sailed  majestically  down,  and  burst  right  against  his 
nose!  He  looked  up,  —  at  first  with  a  stern,  keen 
glance,  which  penetrated  at  once  into  the  obscurity  be- 
hind the  arched  window,  —  then  with  a  smile  which 
might  be  conceived  as  diffusing  a  dog-day  sultriness 
for  the  space  of  several  yards  about  him. 

"  Aha,  Cousin  Clifford !  "  cried  Judge  Pyncheon. 
"  What !  still  blowing  soap-bubbles !  " 

The  tone  seemed  as  if  meant  to  be  kind  and  sooth- 
ing, but  yet  had  a  bitterness  of  sarcasm  in  it.  As  for 
Clifford,  an  absolute  palsy  of  fear  came  over  him. 
Apart  from  any  definite  cause  of  dread  which  his  past 
experience  might  have  given  him,  he  felt  that  native 
and  original  horror  of  the  excellent  Judge  which  is 
proper  to  a  weak,  delicate,  and  apprehensive  character 
in  the  presence  of  massive  strength.  Strength  is  in- 
comprehensible by  weakness,  and,  therefore,  the  more 
terrible.  There  is  no  greater  bugbear  than  a  strong- 
willed  relative  in  the  circle  of  his  own  connections. 


xn. 

THE  DAGUERREOTTPIST. 

IT  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  life  of  a  persoa* 
age  naturally  so  active  as  Phoebe  could  be  wholly  con- 
fined within  the  precincts  of  the  old  Pyncheon  House. 
Clifford's  demands  upon  her  time  were  usually  sat- 
isfied, in  those  long  days,  considerably  earlier  than 
sunset.  Quiet  as  his  daily  existence  seemed,  it  never- 
theless drained  all  the  resources  by  which  he  lived. 
It  was  not  physical  exercise  that  overwearied  him,  — 
for  except  that  he  sometimes  wrought  a  little  with  a 
hoe,  or  paced  the  garden-walk,  or,  in  rainy  weather, 
traversed  a  large  unoccupied  room,  —  it  was  his  ten- 
dency to  remain  only  too  quiescent,  as  regarded  any 
toil  of  the  limbs  and  muscles.  But,  either  there  was 
a  smouldering  fire  within  him  that  consumed  his  vi- 
tal energy,  or  the  monotony  that  would  have  dragged 
itself  with  benumbing  effect  over  a  mind  differently 
situated  was  no  monotony  to  Clifford.  Possibly,  he 
was  in  a  state  of  second  growth  and  recovery,  and  was 
constantly  assimilating  nutriment  for  his  spirit  and  in- 
tellect  from  sights,  sounds,  and  events,  which  passed 
as  a  perfect  void  to  persons  more  practised  with  the 
world.  As  all  is  activity  and  vicissitude  to  the  new 
mind  of  a  child,  so  might  it  be,  likewise,  to  a  mind 
that  had  undergone  a  kind  of  new  creation,  after  its 
long-suspended  life. 

Be  the  cause  what  it  might,  Clifford  commonly  re- 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST.  209 

tired  to  rest,  thoroughly  exhausted,  while  the  sunbeams 
were  still  melting  through  his  window-curtains,  or  were 
thrown  with  late  lustre  on  the  chamber  wall.  And 
while  he  thus  slept  early,  as  other  children  do,  and 
dreamed  of  childhood,  Phoebe  was  free  to  follow  her 
own  tastes  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  and  evening. 

This  was  a  freedom  essential  to  the  health  even  of  a 
character  so  little  susceptible  of  morbid  influences  as 
that  of  Phoebe.  The  old  house,  as  we  have  already 
said,  had  both  the  dry-rot  and  the  damp-rot  in  its  walls ; 
it  was  not  good  to  breathe  no  other  atmosphere  than 
that.  Hepzibah,  though  she  had  her  valuable  and  re- 
deeming traits,  had  grown  to  be  a  kind  of  lunatic,  by 
imprisoning  herself  so  long  in  one  place,  with  no  other 
company  than  a  single  series  of  ideas,  and  but  one  af- 
fection, and  one  bitter  sense  of  wrong.  Clifford,  the 
reader  may  perhaps  imagine,  was  too  inert  to  operate 
morally  on  his  fellow-creatures,  however  intimate  and 
exclusive  their  relations  with  him.  But  the  sympathy 
or  magnetism  among  human  beings  is  more  subtile  and 
universal  than  we  think ;  it  exists,  indeed,  among  dif- 
ferent classes  of  organized  life,  and  vibrates  from  one 
to  another.  A  flower,  for  instance,  as  Phoebe  herself 
observed,  always  began  to  droop  sooner  in  Clifford's 
hand,  or  Hepzibah's,  than  in  her  own ;  and  by  the 
same  law,  converting  her  whole  daily  life  into  a  flower- 
fragrance  for  these  two  sickly  spirits,  the  blooming 
girl  must  inevitably  droop  and  fade  much  sooner  than 
if  worn  on  a  younger  and  happier  breast.  Unless  she 
had  now  and  then  indulged  her  brisk  impulses,  and 
breathed  rural  air  in  a  suburban  walk,  or  ocean  breezes 
along  the  shore,  —  had  occasionally  obeyed  the  impulse 
of  Nature,  in  New  England  girls,  by  attending  a  met- 
aphysical or  philosophical  lecture,  or  viewing  a  sevei* 

VOL.  in-  14 


210  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

mile  panorama,  or  listening  to  a  concert,  —  had  gone 
shopping  about  the  city,  ransacking  entire  depots  of 
splendid  merchandise,  and  bringing  home  a  ribbon,  — • 
had  employed,  likewise,  a  little  time  to  read  the  Bible 
in  her  chamber,  and  had  stolen  a  little  more  to  think 
of  her  mother  and  her  native  place,  —  unless  for  such 
moral  medicines  as  the  above,  we  should  soon  have  be- 
held our  poor  Phoebe  grow  thin  and  put  on  a  bleached 
unwholesome  aspect,  and  assume  strange,  shy  ways, 
prophetic  of  old-maidenhood  and  a  cheerless  future. 

Even  as  it  was,  a  change  grew  visible;  a  change 
partly  to  be  regretted,  although  whatever  charm  it  in- 
fringed upon  was  repaired  by  another,  perhaps  more 
precious.  She  was  not  so  constantly  gay,  but  had  her 
moods  of  thought,  which  Clifford,  on  the  whole,  lilted 
better  than  her  former  phase  of  unmingled  cheerful- 
ness; because  now  she  understood  him  better  and 
more  delicately,  and  sometimes  even  interpreted  him 
to  himself.  Her  eyes  looked  larger,  and  darker,  and 
deeper;  so  deep,  at  some  silent  moments,  that  they 
seemed  like  Artesian  wells,  down,  down,  into  the  in- 
finite. She  was  less  girlish  than  when  we  first  beheld 
her  alighting  from  the  omnibus ;  less  girlish,  but  more 
a  woman. 

The  only  youthful  mind  with  which  Phoebe  had  an 
opportunity  of  frequent  intercourse  was  that  of  the 
daguerreotypist.  Inevitably,  by  the  pressure  of  the 
seclusion  about  them,  they  had  been  brought  into  hab- 
its of  some  familiarity.  Had  they  met  under  different 
circumstances,  neither  of  these  young  persons  would 
have  been  likely  to  bestow  much  thought  upon  the 
other,  unless,  indeed,  their  extreme  dissimilarity  should 
have  proved  a  principle  of  mutual  attraction.  Both,  it 
18  true,  were  characters  proper  to  New  England  lifa 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST.  211 

and  possessing  a  common  ground,  therefore,  in  their 
more  external  developments ;  but  as  unlike,  in  their 
respective  interiors,  as  if  their  native  climes  had  been 
at  world-wide  distance.  During  the  early  part  of  their 
acquaintance,  Phffibe  had  held  back  rather  more  than 
was  customary  with  her  frank  and  simple  manners 
from  Holgrave's  not  very  marked  advances.  Nor  was 
she  yet  satisfied  that  she  knew  him  well,  although 
they  almost  daily  met  and  talked  together,  in  a  kind, 
friendly,  and  what  seemed  to  be  a  familiar  way. 

The  artist,  in  a  desultory  manner,  had  imparted  to 
Phcebe  something  of  his  history.  Young  as  he  was, 
and  had  his  career  terminated  at  the  point  already  at- 
tained, there  had  been  enough  of  incident  to  fill,  very 
creditably,  an  autobiographic  volume.  A  romance  on 
the  plan  of  Gil  Bias,  adapted  to  American  society  and 
manners,  would  cease  to  be  a  romance.  The  experience 
of  many  individuals  among  us,  who  think  it  hardly 
worth  the  telling,  would  equal  the  vicissitudes  of  the 
Spaniard's  earlier  life ;  while  their  ultimate  success,  or 
the  point  whither  they  tend,  may  be  incomparably 
higher  than  any  that  a  novelist  would  imagine  for  his 
hero.  Holgrave,  as  he  told  Phoabe,  somewhat  proudly, 
could  not  boast  of  his  origin,  unless  as  being  exceed- 
ingly humble,  nor  of  his  education,  except  that  it  had 
been  the  scantiest  possible,  and  obtained  by  a  few  win- 
ter-months' attendance  at  a  district  school.  Left  early 
to  his  own  guidance,  he  had  begun  to  be  self-depend- 
ent while  yet  a  boy ;  and  it  was  a  condition  aptly 
suited  to  his  natural  force  of  will.  Though  now  but 
twenty-two  years  old  (lacking  some  months,  which  are 
years  in  such  a  life),  he  had  already  been,  first,  a 
country  schoolmaster ;  next,  a  salesman  in  a  country 
store ;  and,  either  at  the  same  time  or  afterwards,  the 


£12     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

political  editor  of  a  country  newspaper.  He  had  sub» 
sequently  travelled  New  England  and  the  Middle 
States,  as  a  pedlar,  in  the  employment  of  a  Connecti 
cut  manufactory  of  cologne-water  and  other  essences. 
In  an  episodical  way  he  had  studied  and  practised 
dentistry,  and  with  very  flattering  success,  especially 
in  many  of  the  factory-towns  along  our  inland  streams. 
As  a  supernumerary  official,  of  some  kind  or  other, 
aboard  a  packet -ship,  he  had  visited  Europe,  and 
found  means,  before  his  return,  to  see  Italy,  and  part 
of  France  and  Germany.  At  a  later  period  he  had 
spent  some  months  in  a  community  of  Fourierists. 
Still  more  recently  he  had  been  a  public  lecturer  on 
Mesmerism,  for  which  science  (as  he  assured  Phoebe, 
and,  indeed,  satisfactorily  proved,  by  putting  Chanti- 
cleer, who  happened  to  be  scratching  near  by,  to 
sleep)  he  had  very  remarkable  endowments. 

His  present  phase,  as  a  daguerreotypist,  was  of  no 
more  importance  in  his  own  view,  nor  likely  to  be 
more  permanent,  than  any  of  the  preceding  ones.  It 
had  been  taken  up  with  the  careless  alacrity  of  an  ad- 
venturer, who  had  his  bread  to  earn.  It  would  be 
thrown  aside  as  carelessly,  whenever  he  should  choose 
to  earn  his  bread  by  some  other  equally  digressive 
means.  But  what  was  most  remarkable,  and,  per- 
haps, showed  a  more  than  common  poise  in  the  young 
man,  was  the  fact  that,  amid  all  these  personal  vicis- 
situdes, he  had  never  lost  his  identity.  Homeless  as 
he  had  been,  —  continually  changing  his  whereabout, 
and,  therefore,  responsible  neither  to  public  opinion 
nor  to  individuals,  —  putting  off  one  exterior,  and 
snatching  up  another,  to  be  soon  shifted  for  a  third,— » 
he  had  never  violated  the  innermost  man,  but  had  ear- 
ned his  conscience  along  with  him.  It  was  impossible 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST.  213 

to  know  Holgrave  without  recognizing  this  to  be  the 
fact.  Hepzibah  had  seen  it.  Phrebe  soon  saw  it, 
likewise,  and  gave  him  the  sort  of  confidence  which 
such  a  certainty  inspires.  She  was  startled,  however, 
and  sometimes  repelled,  —  not  by  any  doubt  of  his 
integrity  to  whatever  law  he  acknowledged,  but  by  a- 
sense  that  his  law  differed  from  her  own.  He  made 
her  uneasy,  and  seemed  to  unsettle  everything  around 
her,  by  his  lack  of  reverence  for  what  was  fixed,  un- 
less, at  a  moment's  warning,  it  could  establish  its  right 
to  hold  its  ground. 

Then,  moreover,  she  scarcely  thought  him  affection- 
ate in  his  nature.  He  was  too  calm  and  cool  an  ob- 
server. Phffibe  felt  his  eye,  often  ;  his  heart,  seldom 
or  never.  He  took  a  certain  kind  of  interest  in  Hep- 
zibah and  her  brother,  and  Phrebe  herself.  He 
studied  them  attentively,  and  allowed  no  slightest  cir- 
cumstance of  their  individualities  to  escape  him.  He 
was  ready  to  do  them  whatever  good  he  might ;  but, 
after  all,  he  never  exactly  made  common  cause  with 
them,  nor  gave  any  reliable  evidence  that  he  loved 
them  better  in  proportion  as  he  knew  them  more.  In 
his  relations  with  them,  he  seemed  to  be  in  quest  of 
mental  food,  not  heart-sustenance.  Phoebe  could  not 
conceive  what  interested  him  so  much  in  her  friends 
and  herself,  intellectually,  since  he  cared  nothing  for 
them,  or,  comparatively,  so  little,  as  objects  of  human 
affection. 

Always,  in  his  interviews  with  Phoabe,  the  artist 
made  especial  inquiry  as  to  the  welfare  of  Clifford, 
whom,  except  at  the  Sunday  festival,  he  seldom  saw. 

"  Does  he  still  seem  happy  ?  "  he  asked  one  day. 

"As  happy  as  a  child,"  answered  Phosbe  ;  "bui'«* 
like  a  child,  too  —  very  easily  disturbed." 


214     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

44  How  disturbed  ?  "  inquired  Holgrave.  "  By  things 
without,  or  by  thoughts  within  ?  " 

44  I  cannot  see  his  thoughts  !  How  should  I  ?  "  re- 
plied Phoebe,  with  simple  piquancy.  "  Very  often 
his  humor  changes  without  any  reason  that  can  be 
guessed  at,  just  as  a  cloud  comes  over  the  sun.  Lat- 
terly, since  I  have  begun  to  know  him  better,  I  feel  it 
to  be  not  quite  right  to  look  closely  into  his  moods. 
He  has  had  such  a  great  sorrow,  that  his  heart  is 
made  all  solemn  and  sacred  by  it.  When  he  is  cheer- 
ful, —  when  the  sun  shines  into  his  mind,  —  then  I 
venture  to  peep  in,  just  as  far  as  the  light  reaches, 
but  no  further.  It  is  holy  ground  where  the  shadow 
falls!" 

"  How  prettily  you  express  this  sentiment ! "  said 
the  artist.  "I  can  understand  the  feeling,  without 
possessing  it.  Had  I  your  opportunities,  no  scruples 
would  prevent  me  from  fathoming  Clifford  to  the  full 
depth  of  my  plummet-line  !  " 

"  How  strange  that  you  should  wish  it !  "  remarked 
Phoebe,  involuntarily.  "  What  is  Cousin  Clifford  to 
you?" 

44  Oh,  nothing,  —  of  course,  nothing  !  "  answered 
Holgrave,  with  a  smile.  "  Only  this  is  such  an  odd 
and  incomprehensible  world !  The  more  I  look  at  it 
the  more  it  puzzles  me,  and  I  begin  to  suspect  that 
a  man's  bewilderment  is  the  measure  of  his  wisdom. 
Men  and  women,  and  children,  too,  are  such  strange 
creatures,  that  one  never  can  be  certain  that  he  really 
knows  them ;  nor  ever  guess  what  they  have  been, 
from  what  he  sees  them  to  be  now.  Judge  Pyncheonf 
Clifford !  What  a  complex  riddle  —  a  complexity  of 
complexities  —  do  they  present!  It  requires  intuitive 
sympathy,  like  a  young  girl's,  to  solve  it.  A  mere 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST.  215 

observer,  like  myself  (who  never  have  any  intuitions, 
and  am,  at  best,  only  subtile  and  acute),  is  pretty  cer- 
tain to  go  astray." 

The  artist  now  turned  the  conversation  to. themes 
less  dark  than  that  which  they  had  touched  upon. 
Phcebe  and  he  were  young  together;  nor  had  Hoi 
grave,  in  his  premature  experience  of  life,  wasted  en« 
tirely  that  beautiful  spirit  of  youth,  which,  gushing 
forth  from  one  small  heart  and  fancy,  may  diffuse  it- 
self over  the  universe,  making  it  all  as  bright  as  on 
the  first  day  of  creation.  Man's  own  youth  is  the 
world's  youth;  at  least,  he  feels  as  if  it  were,  and 
imagines  that  the  earth's  granite  substance  is  some- 
thing not  yet  hardened,  and  which  he  can  mould  into 
whatever  shape  he  likes.  So  it  was  with  Holgrave. 
He  could  talk  sagely  about  the  world's  old  age,  but 
never  actually  believed  what  he  said  ;  he  was  a  young 
man  still,  and  therefore  looked  upon  the  world  —  that 
gray-bearded  and  wrinkled  profligate,  decrepit,  with- 
out being  venerable — as  a  tender  stripling,  capable 
of  being  improved  into  all  that  it  ought  to  be,  but 
scarcely  yet  had  shown  the  remotest  promise  of  be- 
coming. He  had  that  sense,  or  inward  prophecy,  — • 
which  a  young  man  had  better  never  have  been  born 
than  not  to  have,  and  a  mature  man  had  better  die  at 
once  than  utterly  to  relinquish,  —  that  we  are  not 
doomed  to  creep  on  forever  in  the  old  bad  way,  but 
that,  this  very  now,  there  are  the  harbingers  abroad 
of  a  golden  era,  to  be  accomplished  in  his  own  life- 
time. It  seemed  to  Holgrave  —  as  doubtless  it  has 
seemed  to  the  hopeful  of  every  century  since  the 
epoch  of  Adam's  grandchildren  —  that  in  this  age, 
more  than  ever  before,  the  moss-grown  and  rotten 
Past  is  to  be  torn  down,  and  lifeless  institutions  to  be 


216     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

thrust  out  of  the  way,  and  their  dead  corpses  buried, 
and  everything  to  begin  anew. 

As  to  the  main  point,  —  may  we  never  live  to  doubt 
it !  —  as  to  the  better  centuries  that  are  coming,  the 
artist  was  surely  right.  His  error  lay  in  supposing 
that  this  age,  more  than  any  past  or  future  one,  is  des* 
tined  to  see  the  tattered  garments  of  Antiquity  ex- 
changed  for  a  new  suit,  instead  of  gradually  renewing 
themselves  by  patchwork ;  in  applying  his  own  little 
life-span  as  the  measure  of  an  interminable  achieve- 
ment ;  and,  more  than  all,  in  fancying  that  it  mattered 
anything  to  the  great  end  in  view  whether  he  himself 
should  contend  for  it  or  against  it.  Yet  it  was  well 
for  him  to  think  so.  This  enthusiasm,  infusing  itself 
through  the  calmness  of  his  character,  and  thus  taking 
an  aspect  of  settled  thought  and  wisdom,  would  serve 
to  keep  his  youth  pure,  and  make  his  aspirations  high. 
And  when,  with  the  years  settling  down  more  weight- 
ily upon  him,  his  early  faith  should  be  modified  by  in- 
evitable experience,  it  would  be  with  no  harsh  and 
sudden  revolution  of  his  sentiments.  He  would  still 
have  faith  in  man's  brightening  destiny,  and  perhaps 
love  him  all  the  better,  as  he  should  recognize  his 
helplessness  in  his  own  behalf ;  and  the  haughty  faith, 
with  which  he  began  life,  would  be  well  bartered  for  a 
far  humbler  one  at  its  close,  in  discerning  that  man's 
best  directed  effort  accomplishes  a  kind  of  dream,  while 
God  is  the  sole  worker  of  realities. 

Holgrave  had  read  very  little,  and  that  little  in 
passing  through  the  thoroughfare  of  life,  where  the 
mystic  language  of  his  books  was  necessarily  mixed 
up  with  the  babble  of  the  multitude,  so  that  both  one 
and  the  other  were  apt  to  lose  any  sense  that  might 
have  been  properly  their  own.  He  considered  him- 


THE  DAGUERREOTYPIST.  217 

•elf  a  thinker,  and  was  certainly^  of  a  thoughtful  turn, 
but,  with  his  own  path  to  discover,  had  perhaps  hardly 
yet  reached  the  point  where  an  educated  man  begins 
to  think.  The  true  value  of  his  character  lay  in  that 
deep  consciousness  of  inward  strength,  which  made  all 
his  past  vicissitudes  seem  merely  like  a  change  of  gar- 
ments ;  in  that  enthusiasm,  so  quiet  that  he  scarcely 
knew  of  its  existence,  but  which  gave  a  warmth  to 
everything  that  he  laid  his  hand  on  ;  in  that  personal 
ambition,  hidden  —  from  his  own  as  well  as  other  eyes 
—  among  his  more  generous  impulses,  but  in  which 
lurked  a  certain  efficacy,  that  might  solidify  him  from 
a  theorist  into  the  champion  of  some  practicable  cause. 
Altogether  in  his  culture  and  want  of  culture,  —  in 
his  crude,  wild,  and  misty  philosophy,  and  the  prac- 
tical experience  that  counteracted  some  of  its  tenden- 
cies ;  in  his  magnanimous  zeal  for  man's  welfare,  and 
his  recklessness  of  whatever  the  ages  had  established 
in  man's  behalf ;  in  his  faith,  and  in  his  infidelity ;  h» 
what  he  had,  and  in  what  he  lacked, — the  artist  might 
fitly  enough  stand  forth  as  the  representative  of  many 
compeers  in  his  native  land. 

His  career  it  would  be  difficult  to  prefigure.  There 
appeared  to  be  qualities  in  Holgrave,  such  as,  in  a 
country  where  everything  is  free  to  the  hand  that  can 
grasp  it,  could  hardly  fail  to  put  some  of  the  world's 
prizes  within  his  reach.  But  these  matters  are  de- 
lightfully uncertain.  At  almost  every  step  in  life,  we 
meet  with  young  men  of  just  about  Holgrave's  age, 
for  whom  we  anticipate  wonderful  things,  but  of  whom, 
even  after  much  and  careful  inquiry,  we  never  happen 
to  hear  another  word.  The  effervescence  of  youth 
and  passion,  and  the  fresh  gloss  of  the  intellect  and 
imagination,  endow  them  with  a  false  brilliancy,  which 


218       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

makes  fools  of  themselves  and  other  people.  Like 
certain  chintzes,  calicoes,  and  ginghams,  they  sho^ 
finely  in  their  first  newness,  but  cannot  stand  the  sun 
and  rain,  and  assume  a  very  sober  aspect  after  wash- 
ing-day. 

But  our  business  is  with  Holgrave  as  we  find  him 
on  this  particular  afternoon,  and  in  the  arbor  of  the 
Pyncheon  garden.  In  that  pomt  of  view,  it  was  a 
pleasant  sight  to  behold  this  young  man,  with  so  much 
faith  in  himself,  and  so  fair  an  appearance  of  admira- 
ble powers,  —  so  little  harmed,  too,  by  the  many  tests 
that  had  tried  his  metal,  —  it  was  pleasant  to  see  him 
in  his  kindly  intercourse  with  Phoebe.  Her  thought 
had  scarcely  done  him  justice  when  it  pronounced  him 
cold ;  or,  if  so,  he  had  grown  warmer  now.  With- 
out such  purpose  on  her  part,  and  unconsciously  on 
his,  she  made  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  like  a 
home  to  him,  and  the  garden  a  familiar  precinct. 
With  the  insight  on  which  he  prided  himself,  he  fan- 
cied that  he  could  look  through  Phosbe,  and  all  around 
her,  and  could  read  her  off  like  a  page  of  a  child's 
story-book.  But  these  transparent  natures  are  often 
deceptive  in  their  depth  ;  those  pebbles  at  the  bottom 
of  the  fountain  are  farther  from  us  than  we  think. 
Thus  the  artist,  whatever  he  might  judge  of  Phoebe's 
capacity,  was  beguiled,  by  some  silent  charm  of  hers, 
to  talk  freely  of  what  he  dreamed  of  doing  in  the 
world.  He  poured  himself  out  as  to  another  self. 
Very  possibly,  he  forgot  Phoebe  while  he  talked  to 
her,  and  was  moved  only  by  the  inevitable  tendency 
of  thought,  when  rendered  sympathetic  by  enthusiasm 
and  emotion,  to  flow  into  the  first  safe  reservoir  which 
it  finds.  But,  had  you  peeped  at  them  through  the 
chinks  of  the  garden-fence,  the  young  man's  earnest- 


THE  DACUERREOTYPIST.  219 

ness  and  heightened  color  might  have  led  you  to  sup. 
pose  that  he  was  making  love  to  the  young  girl ! 

At  length,  something  was  said  by  Holgrave  that 
made  it  apposite  for  Phoebe  to  inquire  what  had  first 
brought  him  acquainted  with  her  cousin  Hepzibah, 
and  why  he  now  chose  to  lodge  in  the  desolate  old 
Pyncheon  House.  Without  directly  answering  her, 
iie  turned  from  the  Future,  which  had  heretofore 
been  the  theme  of  his  discourse,  and  began  to  speak 
of  the  influences  of  the  Past.  One  subject,  indeed,  is 
but  the  reverberation  of  the  other. 

"  Shall  we  never,  never  get  rid  of  this  Past  ?  "  cried 
he,  keeping  up  the  earnest  tone  of  his  preceding  con- 
versation. "  It  lies  upon  the  Present  like  a  giant's 
dead  body !  In  fact,  the  case  is  just  as  if  a  young 
giant  were  compelled  to  waste  all  his  strength  in 
carrying  about  the  corpse  of  the  old  giant,  his  grand- 
father, who  died  a  long  while  ago,  and  only  needs  to 
be  decently  buried.  Just  think  a  moment,  and  it  will 
startle  you  to  see  what  slaves  we  are  to  bygone  times, 
—  to  Death,  if  we  give  the  matter  the  right  word  !  " 

"  But  I  do  not  see  it,"  observed  Phoebe. 

"  For  example,  then,"  continued  Holgrave  :  "  a  dead 
man.  if  he  happen  to  have  made  a  will,  disposes  of 
wealth  no  longer  his  own  ;  or,  if  he  die  intestate,  it 
is  distributed  in  accordance  with  the  notions  of  men 
much  longer  dead  than  he.  A  dead  man  sits  on  all 
our  judgment-seats  ;  and  living  judges  do  but  search 
out  and  repeat  his  decisions.  We  read  in  dead  men's 
books !  We  laugh  at  dead  men's  jokes,  and  cry  at 
dead  men's  pathos !  We  are  sick  of  dead  men's  dis- 
eases, physical  and  moral,  and  die  of  the  sane  rem- 
edies with  which  dead  doctors  killed  their  patients ! 
We  worship  the  living  Deity  according  to  dead  men's 


220     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

forms  and  creeds.  Whatever  we  seek  to  do,  of  our 
own  free  motion,  a  dead  man's  icy  hand  obstructs  us! 
Turn  our  eyes  to  what  point  we  may,  a  dead  man's 
white,  immitigable  face  encounters  them,  and  freezes 
our  very  heart !  And  we  must  be  dead  ourselves  be- 
fore we  can  begin  to  have  our  proper  influence  on  our 
own  world,  which  will  then  be  no  longer  our  world, 
but  the  world  of  another  generation,  with  which  we 
shall  have  no  shadow  of  a  right  to  interfere.  I  ought 
to  have  said,  too,  that  we  live  in  dead  men's  houses ; 
as,  for  instance,  in  this  of  the  Seven  Gables ! " 

"  And  why  not,"  said  Phrebe,  "  so  long  as  we  can 
be  comfortable  in  them  ?  " 

"  But  we  shall  live  to  see  the  day,  I  trust,"  went  on 
the  artist,  "  when  no  man  shall  build  his  house  for 
posterity.  Why  should  he  ?  He  might  just  as  rea- 
sonably order  a  durable  suit  of  clothes,  —  leather,  or 
gutta-percha,  or  whatever  else  lasts  longest,  —  so  that 
his  great-grandchildren  should  have  the  benefit  of 
them,  and  cut  precisely  the  same  figure  in  the  world 
that  he  himself  does.  If  each  generation  were  allowed 
and  expected  to  build  its  own  houses,  that  single 
change,  comparatively  unimportant  in  itself,  would 
imply  almost  every  reform  which  society  is  now  suf- 
fering for.  I  doubt  whether  even  our  public  edifices 
—  our  capitols,  state-houses,  court-houses,  city-hall,  and 
churches — ought  to  be  built  of  such  permanent  mate- 
rials as  stone  or  brick.  It  were  better  that  they  should 
crumble  to  ruin  once  in  twenty  years,  or  thereabouts, 
as  a  hint  to  the  people  to  examine  into  and  reform  the 
institutions  which  they  symbolize." 

"  How  you  hate  everything  old ! "  said  Phrebe,  in 
dismay.  "  It  makes  me  dizzy  to  think  of  such  a  shift 
ing  world  J  " 


THE  DAGUERREOTYP1ST.  221 

"I  certainly  love  nothing  mouldy,"  answered  Hoi- 
grave.  "  Now,  this  old  Pyncheon  House !  Is  it  a 
wholesome  place  to  live  in,  with  its  black  shingles, 
and  the  green  moss  that  shows  how  damp  they  are  ? 
—  its  dark,  low-studded  rooms  ?  —  its  grime  and  sor- 
didness,  which  are  the  crystallization  on  its  walls  of 
the  human  breath,  that  has  been  drawn  and  exhaled 
here  in  discontent  and  anguish  ?  The  house  ought 
to  be  purified  with  fire,  —  purified  till  only  its  ashes 
remain ! " 

"Then  why  do  you  live  in  it?"  asked  Phoebe,  a 
little  piqued. 

"  Oh,  I  am  pursuing  my  studies  here ;  not  in  books, 
however,"  replied  Holgrave.  "  The  house,  in  my  view, 
is  expressive  of  that  odious  and  abominable  Past,  with 
all  its  bad  influences,  against  which  I  have  just  been 
declaiming.  I  dwell  in  it  for  a  while,  that  I  may 
know  the  better  how  to  hate  it.  By  the  by,  did  you 
ever  hear  the  story  of  Maule,  the  wizard,  and  what 
happened  between  him  and  your  immeasurably  great* 
grandfather  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  !  "  said  Phoabe  ;  "  I  heard  it  long  ago, 
from  my  father,  and  two  or  three  times  from  my  cousin 
Hepzibah,  in  the  month  that  I  have  been  here.  She 
seems  to  think  that  all  the  calamities  of  the  Pyncheons 
began  from  that  quarrel  with  the  wizard,  as  you  call 
him.  And  you,  Mr.  Holgrave,  look  as  if  you  thought 
so  too  !  How  singular,  that  you  should  believe  what 
is  so  very  absurd,  when  you  reject  many  things  that 
are  a  great  deal  worthier  of  credit !  " 

"  I  do  believe  it,"  said  the  artist,  seriously ;  "  not  as 
a  superstition,  however,  but  as  proved  by  unquestion- 
able facts,  and  as  exemplifying  a  theory.  Now,  see : 
under  those  seven  gables,  at  which  we  now  look  up, 


£22     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

• —  and  which  old  Colonel  Pyncheon  meant  to  be  the 
house  of  his  descendants,  in  prosperity  and  happiness, 
down  to  an  epoch  far  beyond  the  present,  —  under 
that  roof,  through  a  portion  of  three  centuries,  there 
has  been  perpetual  remorse  of  conscience,  a  constantly 
defeated  hope,  strife  amongst  kindred,  various  misery, 
a  strange  form  of  death,  dark  suspicion,  unspeakable 
disgrace,  —  all,  or  most  of  which  calamity  I  have  the 
means  of  tracing  to  the  old  Puritan's  inordinate  de- 
sire to  plant  and  endow  a  family.  To  plant  a  family ! 
This  idea  is  at  the  bottom  of  most  of  the  wrong  and 
mischief  which  men  do.  The  truth  is,  that,  once  in 
every  half-century,  at  longest,  a  family  should  be 
merged  into  the  great,  obscure  mass  of  humanity,  and 
forget  all  about  its  ancestors.  Human  blood,  in  order 
to  keep  its  freshness,  should  run  in  hidden  streams,  as 
the  water  of  an  aqueduct  is  conveyed  in  subterranean 
pipes.  In  the  family  existence  of  these  Pyncheons, 
for  instance,  —  forgive  me,  Phoebe ;  but  I  cannot  think 
of  you  as  one  of  them,  —  in  their  brief  New  England 
pedigree,  there  has  been  time  enough  to  infect  them 
all  with  one  kind  of  lunacy  or  another !  " 

"  You  speak  very  unceremoniously  of  my  kindred,** 
said  Phoebe,  debating  with  herself  whether  she  ought 
to  take  offence. 

"  I  speak  true  thoughts  to  a  true  mind !  "  answered 
Holgrave,  with  a  vehemence  which  Phoebe  had  not 
before  witnessed  in  him.  "  The  truth  is  as  I  say ' 
Furthermore,  the  original  perpetrator  and  father  of 
this  mischief  appears  to  have  perpetuated  himself,  and 
still  walks  the  street,  —  at  least,  his  very  image,  in 
mind  and  body,  —  with  the  fairest  prospect  of  trans- 
mitting  to  posterity  as  rich  and  as  wretched  an  inhe> 
itance  as  he  has  received !  Do  you  remember  the  da* 
guerreotype,  and  its  resemblance  to  the  old  portrait  ?  * 


THE  DAGUEEREOTYPIST.  223 

"  How  strangely  in  earnest  you  are ! "  exclaimed 
Phoebe,  looking  at  him  with  surprise  and  perplexity ; 
half  alarmed  and  partly  inclined  to  laugh.  "  You 
talk  of  the  lunacy  of  the  Pyncheons ;  is  it  conta- 
gious ?  " 

"  I  understand  you !  "  said  the  artist,  coloring  and 
laughing.  "  I  believe  I  am  a  little  mad.  This  sub- 
ject has  taken  hold  of  my  mind  with  the  strangest 
tenacity  of  clutch  since  I  have  lodged  in  yonder  old 
gable.  As  one  method  of  throwing  it  off,  I  have  put 
an  incident  of  the  Pyncheon  family  history,  with  which 
I  happen  to  be  acquainted,  into  the  form  of  a  legend, 
and  mean  to  publish  it  in  a  magazine." 

"  Do  you  write  for  the  magazines  ? "  inquired 
Phoebe. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  did  not  know  it  ? "  cried  Hoi- 
grave.  "  Well,  such  is  literary  fame !  Yes,  Miss 
Phoebe  Pyncheon,  among  the  multitude  of  my  marvel- 
lous gifts  I  have  that  of  writing  stories ;  and  my  name 
has  figured,  I  can  assure  you,  on  the  covers  of  Graham 
and  Godey,  making  as  respectable  an  appearance,  for 
aught  I  could  see,  as  any  of  the  canonized  bead-roll 
with  which  it  was  associated.  In  the  humorous  line, 
I  am  thought  to  have  a  very  pretty  way  with  rne  ;  and 
as  for  pathos,  I  am  as  provocative  of  tears  as  an  onion. 
But  shall  I  read  you  my  story  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  it  is  not  very  long,"  said  Phoebe,  —  and 
added  laughingly,  —  "  nor  very  dull." 

As  this  latter  point  was  one  which  the  daguerreotyp- 
ist  could  not  decide  for  himself,  he  forthwith  produced 
his  roll  of  manuscript,  and,  while  the  late  sunbeams 
gilded  the  seven  gables,  began  to  read. 


xm. 

ALICE  PYNCHEON. 

THEBE  was  a  message  brought,  one  day,  from  the 
worshipful  Gervayse  Pyncheon  to  young  Matthew 
Maule,  the  carpenter,  desiring  his  immediate  presence 
at  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 

"  And  what  does  your  master  want  with  me  ?  "  said 
the  carpenter  to  Mr.  Pyncheon's  black  servant.  "  Does 
the  house  need  any  repair?  Well  it  may,  by  this 
time ;  and  no  blame  to  my  father  who  built  it,  neither ! 
I  was  reading  the  old  Colonel's  tombstone,  no  longer 
ago  than  last  Sabbath ;  and,  reckoning  from  that  date, 
the  house  has  stood  seven -and-thirty  years.  No  wonder 
if  there  should  be  a  job  to  do  on  the  roof." 

"  Don't  know  what  massa  wants,"  answered  Scipio. 
"The  house  is  a  berry  good  house,  and  old  Colonel 
Pyncheon  think  so  too,  I  reckon  ;  —  else  why  the  old 
man  haunt  it  so,  and  frighten  a  poor  nigga,  as  he 
does?" 

"  Well,  well,  friend  Scipio ;  let  your  master  know 
that  I  'm  coming,"  said  the  carpenter,  with  a  laugh. 
**  For  a  fair,  workmanlike  job,  he  '11  find  me  his  man. 
And  so  the  house  is  haunted,  is  it  ?  It  will  take  a 
tighter  workman  than  I  am  to  keep  the  spirits  out  of 
the  Seven  Gables.  Even  if  the  Colonel  would  be 
quiet,"  he  added,  muttering  to  himself,  "  my  old  grand- 
father, the  wizard,  will  be  pretty  sure  to  stick  to  the 
Pyncheons  as  long  as  their  walls  hold  together." 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  225 

"What 's  that  you  mutter  to  yourself,  Matthew 
Maule?  "  asked  Scipio.  "  And  what  for  do  you  look 
so  black  at  me  ?  " 

"  No  matter,  darky  !  "  said  the  carpenter.  "  Do 
you  tliink  nobody  is  to  look  black  but  yourself  ?  Go 
tell  your  master  I  'm  coining ;  and  if  you  happen  to 
see  Mistress  Alice,  his  daughter,  give  Matthew  Maule's 
humble  respects  to  her.  She  has  brought  a  fair  face 
from  Italy,  —  fair,  and  gentle,  and  proud,  —  has  that 
same  Alice  Pyncheon  .'  " 

"  He  talk  of  Mistress  Alice !  "  cried  Scipio,  as  he 
returned  from  his  errand.  "  The  low  carpenter-man  ! 
He  no  business  so  much  as  to  look  at  her  a  great  way 
off!" 

This  young  Matthew  Maule,  the  carpenter,  it  must 
be  observed,  was  a  person  little  understood,  and  not 
very  generally  liked,  in  the  town  where  he  resided ; 
not  that  anything  could  be  alleged  against  his  in- 
tegrity, or  his  skill  and  diligence  in  the  handicraft 
which  he  exercised.  The  aversion  (as  it  might  justly 
be  called)  with  which  many  persons  regarded  him 
was  partly  the  result  of  his  own  character  and  deport- 
ment, and  partly  an  inheritance. 

He  was  the  grandson  of  a  former  Matthew  Maule, 
one  of  the  early  settlers  of  the  town,  and  who  had  been 
a  famous  and  terrible  wizard  in  his  day.  This  old  re- 
probate was  one  of  the  sufferers  when  Cotton  Mather, 
and  his  brother  ministers,  and  the  learned  judges,  and 
other  wise  men,  and  Sir  William  Phipps,  the  sagacious 
governor,  made  such  laudable  efforts  to  weaken  the 
great  enemy  of  souls,  by  sending  a  multitude  of  his 
adherents  up  the  rocky  pathway  of  Gallows  Hill. 
Since  those  days,  no  doubt,  it  had  grown  to  be  sus- 
pected that,  in  consequence  of  an  unfortunate  overdo- 

VOL.  III.  15 


226     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ing  of  a  work  praiseworthy  in  itself,  the  proceedings 
against  the  witches  had  proved  far  less  acceptable  to 
the  Beneficent  Father  than  to  that  very  Arch  Enemy 
whom  they  were  intended  to  distress  and  utterly  over- 
whelm. It  is  not  the  less  certain,  however,  that  awe 
and  terror  brooded  over  the  memories  of  those  who 
died  for  this  horrible  crime  of  witchcraft.  Their 
graves,  in  the  crevices  of  the  rocks,  were  supposed  to 
be  incapable  of  retaining  the  occupants  who  had  been 
so  hastily  thrust  into  them.  Old  Matthew  Maule,  es- 
pecially, was  known  to  have  as  little  hesitation  or  dif- 
ficulty in  rising  out  of  his  grave  as  an  ordinary  man 
in  getting  out  of  bed,  and  was  as  often  seen  at  mid- 
night as  living  people  at  noonday.  This  pestilent 
wizard  (in  whom  his  just  punishment  seemed  to  have 
wrought  no  manner  of  amendment)  had  an  inveterate 
habit  of  haunting  a  certain  mansion,  styled  the  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables,  against  the  owner  of  which 
he  pretended  to  hold  an  unsettled  claim  for  ground- 
rent.  The  ghost,  it  appears,  —  with  the  pertinacity 
which  was  one  of  his  distinguishing  characteristics 
while  alive,  —  insisted  that  he  was  the  rightful  pro- 
prietor of  the  site  upon  which  the  house  stood.  His 
terms  were,  that  either  the  aforesaid  ground-rent,  from 
the  day  when  the  cellar  began  to  be  dug,  should  be 
paid  down,  or  the  mansion  itself  given  up ;  else  he, 
the  ghostly  creditor,  would  have  his  finger  in  all  the 
affairs  of  the  Pyncheons,  and  make  everything  go 
wrong  with  them,  though  it  should  be  a  thousand  years 
after  his  death.  It  was  a  wild  story,  perhaps,  but 
seemed  not  altogether  so  incredible  to  those  who  could 
remember  what  an  inflexibly  obstinate  old  fellow  this 
wizard  Maule  had  been. 

Now,  the  wizard's  grandson,  the   young  Matthew 


ALICE  PYNCHEON. 

Maule  of  our  story,  was  popularly  supposed  to  have 
inherited  some  of  his  ancestor's  questionable  traits.  It 
is  wonderful  how  many  absurdities  were  promulgated 
in  reference  to  the  young  man.  He  was  fabled,  for 
example,  to  have  a  strange  power  of  getting  into  peo- 
ple's dreams,  and  regulating  matters  there  according 
to  his  own  fancy,  pretty  much  like  the  stage-manager 
of  a  theatre.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  among 
the  neighbors,  particularly  the  petticoated  ones,  about 
what  they  called  the  witchcraft  of  Maule's  eye.  Some 
said  that  he  could  look  into  people's  minds ;  others, 
that,  by  the  marvellous  power  of  this  eye,  he  could 
draw  people  into  his  own  mind,  or  send  them,  if  he 
pleased,  to  do  errands  to  his  grandfather,  in  the  spir- 
itual world  ;  others,  again,  that  it  was  what  is  termed 
an  Evil  Eye,  and  possessed  the  valuable  faculty  of 
blighting  corn,  and  drying  children  into  mummies  with 
the  heartburn.  But,  after  all,  what  worked  most  to 
the  young  carpenter's  disadvantage  was,  first,  the  re- 
serve and  sternness  of  his  natural  disposition,  and 
next,  the  fact  of  his  not  being  a  church-communicant, 
and  the  suspicion  of  his  holding  heretical  tenets  in 
matters  of  religion  and  polity. 

After  receiving  Mr.  Pyncheon's  message,  the  car- 
penter merely  tarried  to  finish  a  small  job,  which  he 
happened  to  have  in  hand,  and  then  took  his  way  tow- 
ards the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables.  This  noted  edi- 
fice, though  its  style  might  be  getting  a  little  out  of 
fashion,  was  still  as  respectable  a  family  residence  as 
that  of  any  gentleman  in  town.  The  present  owner, 
Gervayse  Pyncheon,  was  said  to  have  contracted  a  dis- 
like to  the  house,  in  consequence  of  a  shock  to  his  sen- 
sibility, in  early  childhood,  from  the  sudden  death  of 
his  grandfather.  In  the  very  act  of  running  to  climb 


228     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Colonel  Pyncheon's  knee,  the  boy  had  discovered  the 
old  Puritan  to  be  a  corpse !  On  arriving  at  manhood, 
Mr.  Pyncheon  had  visited  England,  where  he  married 
a  lady  of  fortune,  and  had  subsequently  spent  many 
years,  partly  in  the  mother  country,  and  partly  in  va- 
rious cities  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  During  this 
period,  the  family  mansion  had  been  consigned  to  the 
charge  of  a  kinsman,  who  was  allowed  to  make  it  his 
home  for  the  time  being,  in  consideration  of  keeping 
the  premises  in  thorough  repair.  So  faithfully  had 
this  contract  been  fulfilled,  that  now,  as  the  carpenter 
approached  the  house,  his  practised  eye  could  detect 
nothing  to  criticise  in  its  condition.  The  peaks  of  the 
seven  gables  rose  up  sharply;  the  shingled  roof 
looked  thoroughly  water-tight ;  and  the  glittering 
plaster- work  entirely  covered  the  exterior  walls,  and 
sparkled  in  the  October  sun,  as  if  it  had  been  new 
only  a  week  ago. 

The  house  had  that  pleasant  aspect  of  life  which  is 
like  the  cheery  expression  of  comfortable  activity  in 
the  human  countenance.  You  could  see,  at  once,  that 
there  was  the  stir  of  a  large  family  within  it.  A  huge 
load  of  oak-wood  was  passing  through  the  gateway, 
towards  the  outbuildings  in  the  rear  ;  the  fat  cook  — 
or  probably  it  might  be  the  housekeeper  —  stood  at 
the  side  door,  bargaining  for  some  turkeys  and  poul- 
try, which  a  countryman  had  brought  for  sale.  Now 
and  then  a  maid-servant,  neatly  dressed,  and  now  the 
shining  sable  face  of  a  slave,  might  be  seen  bustling 
across  the  windows,  in  the  lower  part  of  the  house. 
At  an  open  window  of  a  room  in  the  second  story, 
hanging  over  some  pots  of  beautiful  and  delicate  flow- 
ers,—  exotics,  but  which  had  never  known  a  more 
genial  sunshine  than  that  of  the  New  England  autumn, 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  229 

•—  was  the  figure  of  a  young  lady,  an  exotic,  like  the 
flowers,  and  beautiful  and  delicate  as  they.  Her  pres- 
ence imparted  an  indescribable  grace  and  faint  witch» 
ery  to  the  whole  edifice.  In  other  respects,  it  was  a 
substantial,  jolly-looking  mansion,  and  seemed  fit  to 
be  the  residence  of  a  patriarch,  who  might  establish 
his  own  headquarters  in  the  front  gable  and  assign 
one  of  the  remainder  to  each  of  his  six  children,  while 
the  great  chimney  in  the  centre  should  symbolize  the 
old  fellow's  hospitable  heart,  which  kept  them  all 
warm,  and  made  a  great  whole  of  the  seven  smaller 
ones. 

There  was  a  vertical  sundial  on  the  front  gable ;  and 
as  the  carpenter  passed  beneath  it,  he  looked  up  and 
noted  the  hour. 

"  Three  o'clock  !  "  said  he  to  himself.  "  My  father 
told  me  that  dial  was  put  up  only  an  hour  before  the 
old  Colonel's  death.  How  truly  it  has  kept  time 
these  seven-and-thirty  years  past !  The  shadow  creeps 
and  creeps,  and  is  always  looking  over  the  shoulder  of 
the  sunshine !  " 

It  might  have  befitted  a  craftsman,  like  Matthew 
Maule,  on  being  sent  for  to  a  gentleman's  house,  to  go 
to  the  back  door,  where  servants  and  work-people  were 
usually  admitted ;  or  at  least  to  the  side  entrance, 
where  the  better  class  of  tradesmen  made  application. 
But  the  carpenter  had  a  great  deal  of  pride  and  stiff- 
ness in  his  nature  ;  and,  at  this  moment,  moreover, 
his  heart  was  bitter  with  the  sense  of  hereditary 
wrong,  because  he  considered  the  great  Pyncheon 
House  to  be  standing  on  soil  which  should  have  been 
his  own.  On  this  very  site,  beside  a  spring  of  deli- 
cious water,  his  grandfather  had  felled  the  pine-trees 
and  built  a  cottage,  in  which  children  had  been  bora 


280     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

to  him  ;  and  it  was  only  from  a  dead  man's  stiffened 
fingers  that  Colonel  Pyncheon  had  wrested  away  the 
title-deeds.  So  young  Maule  went  straight  to  the 
principal  entrance,  beneath  a  portal  of  carved  oak,  and 
gave  such  a  peal  of  the  iron  knocker  that  you  would 
have  imagined  the  stern  old  wizard  himself  to  be 
standing  at  the  threshold. 

Black  Scipio  answered  the  summons  in  a  prodigious 
hurry ;  but  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes,  in  amaze- 
ment on  beholding  only  the  carpenter. 

"  Lord-a-mercy  !  what  a  great  man  he  be,  this  car- 
penter fellow !  "  mumbled  Scipio,  down  in  his  throat. 
"  Anybody  think  he  beat  on  the  door  with  his  biggest 
hammer !  " 

"  Here  I  am ! "  said  Maule,  sternly.  "  Show  me 
the  way  to  your  master's  parlor !  " 

As  he  stept  into  the  house,  a  note  of  sweet  and 
melancholy  music  thrilled  and  vibrated  along  the  pas- 
sage-way, proceeding  from  one  of  the  rooms  above 
stairs.  It  was  the  harpsichord  which  Alice  Pyncheon 
had  brought  with  her  from  beyond  the  sea.  The  fair 
Alice  bestowed  most  of  her  maiden  leisure  between 
flowers  and  music,  although  the  former  were  apt  to 
droop,  and  the  melodies  were  often  sad.  She  was  of 
foreign  education,  and  could  not  take  kindly  to  the 
New  England  modes  of  life,  in  which  nothing  beauti- 
ful had  ever  been  developed. 

As  Mr.  Pyncheon  had  been  impatiently  awaiting 
Maule's  arrival,  black  Scipio,  of  course,  lost  no  time  in 
ushering  the  carpenter  into  his  master's  presence.  The 
room  in  which  this  gentleman  sat  was  a  parlor  of  mod- 
erate size,  looking  out  upon  the  garden  of  the  house, 
and  having  its  windows  partly  shadowed  by  the  foliage 
of  fruit-trees.  It  was  Mr.  Pyncheon's  peculiar  apart- 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  231 

ment,  and  was  provided  with  furniture,  in  an  elegant 
and  costly  style,  principally  from  Paris ;  the  floor 
(which  was  unusual  at  that  day)  being  covered  with  a 
carpet,  so  skilfully  and  richly  wrought  that  it  seemed 
to  glow  as  with  living  flowers.  In  one  corner  stood  a 
marble  woman,  to  whom  her  own  beauty  was  the  sole 
and  sufficient  garment.  Some  pictures  —  that  looked 
old,  and  had  a  mellow  tinge  diffused  through  all  their 
artful  splendor  —  hung  on  the  walls.  Near  the  fire- 
place was  a  large  and  very  beautiful  cabinet  of  ebony, 
inlaid  with  ivory ;  a  piece  of  antique  furniture,  which 
Mr.  Pyncheon  had*  bought  in  Venice,  and  which  he 
used  as  the  treasure-place  for  medals,  ancient  coins, 
and  whatever  small  and  valuable  curiosities  he  had 
picked  up  on  his  travels.  Through  all  this  variety  of 
decoration,  however,  the  room  showed  its  original  char- 
acteristics ;  its  low  stud,  its  cross-beam,  its  chimney- 
piece,  with  the  old-fashioned  Dutch  tiles ;  so  that  it 
was  the  emblem  of  a  mind  industriously  stored  with 
foreign  ideas,  and  elaborated  into  artificial  refine- 
ment, but  neither  larger,  nor,  in  its  proper  self,  more 
elegant  than  before. 

There  were  two  objects  that  appeared  rather  out  of 
place  in  this  very  handsomely  furnished  room.  One 
was  a  large  map,  or  surveyor's  plan,  of  a  tract  of  land, 
which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  drawn  a  good  many 
years  ago,  and  was  now  dingy  with  smoke,  and  soiled, 
here  and  there,  with  the  touch  of  fingers.  The  other 
was  a  portrait  of  a  stern  old  man,  in  a  Puritan  garb, 
painted  roughly,  but  with  a  bold  effect,  and  a  remark- 
ably strong  expression  of  character. 

At  a  small  table,  before  a  fire  of  English  sea-coal, 
sat  Mr.  Pyncheon,  sipping  coffee,  which  had  grown  to 
be  a  very  favorite  beverage  with  him  in  France.  He 


232  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

was  a  middle- aged  and  really  handsome  man,  with  a 
wig  flowing  down  upon  his  shoulders  ;  his  coat  was  of 
blue  velvet,  with  lace  on  the  borders  and  at  the  button- 
holes ;  and  the  firelight  glistened  on  the  spacious 
breadth  of  his  waistcoat,  which  was  flowered  all  over 
with  gold.  On  the  entrance  of  Scipio,  ushering  in  the 
carpenter,  Mr.  Pyncheon  turned  partly  round,  but  re- 
sumed his  former  position,  and  proceeded  deliberately 
to  finish  his  cup  of  coffee,  without  immediate  notice  of 
the  guest  whom  he  had  summoned  to  his  presence. 
It  was  not  that  he  intended  any  rudeness  or  improper 
neglect,  —  which,  indeed,  he  woulfl  have  blushed  to  be 
guilty  of,  —  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  a  person 
in  Maule's  station  had  a  claim  on  his  courtesy,  or 
would  trouble  himself  about  it  one  way  or  the  other. 

The  carpenter,  however,  stepped  at  once  to  the 
hearth,  and  turned  himself  about,  so  as  to  look  Mr. 
Pyncheon  in  the  face. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  said  he.  "  Be  pleased  to  ex- 
plain your  business,  that  I  may  go  back  to  my  own  af- 
fairs." 

"  Ah !  excuse  me,"  said  Mr.  Pyncheon,  quietly.  "  I 
did  not  mean  to  tax  your  time  without  a  recompense. 
Your  name,  I  think,  is  Maule,  —  Thomas  or  Matthew 
Maule,  —  a  son  or  grandson  of  the  builder  of  this 
house  ?  " 

"  Matthew  Maule,"  replied  the  carpenter,  —  "  son 
of  him  who  built  the  house,  —  grandson  of  the  right- 
ful proprietor  of  the  soil." 

"  I  know  the  dispute  to  which  you  allude,"  observed 
Mr.  Pyncheon  with  undisturbed  equanimity.  "  I  am 
well  aware  that  my  grandfather  was  compelled  to  re- 
sort to  a  suit  at  law,  in  order  to  establish  his  claim  to 
the  foundation-site  of  this  edifice.  We  will  not,  if  you 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  233 

please,  renew  the  discussion.  The  matter  was  settled 
at  the  time,  and  by  the  competent  authorities,  — equi- 
tably, it  is  to  be  presumed,  —  and,  at  all  events,  irrevo- 
cably. Yet,  singularly  enough,  there  is  an  incidental 
reference  to  this  very  subject  in  what  I  am  now  about 
to  say  to  you.  And  this  same  inveterate  grudge,  — -> 
excuse  me,  I  mean  no  offence,  —  this  irritability^ 
which  you  have  just  shown,  is  not  entirely  aside  from 
the  matter." 

"  If  you  can  find  anything  for  your  purpose,  Mr. 
Pyncheon,"  said  the  carpenter,  "  in  a  man's  natural 
resentment  for  the  wrongs  done  to  his  blood,  you  are 
welcome  to  it !  " 

"  I  take  you  at  your  word,  Goodman  Maule,"  said 
the  owner  of  the  Seven  Gables,  with  a  smile,  "  and 
will  proceed  to  suggest  a  mode  in  which  your  heredi- 
tary resentments  —  justifiable,  or  otherwise  —  may 
have  had  a  bearing  on  my  affairs.  You  have  heard, 
I  suppose,  that  the  Pyncheon  family,  ever  since  my 
grandfather's  days,  have  been  prosecuting  a  still  un- 
settled claim  to  a  very  large  extent  of  territory  at  the 
Eastward?" 

"  Often,"  replied  Maule,  —  and  it  is  said  that  a 
smile  came  over  his  face,  —  "  very  often,  —  from  my 
father!" 

"This  claim,"  continued  Mr.  Pyncheon,  after  paus 
ing  a  moment,  as  if  to  consider  what  the  carpenter's 
smile  might  mean,  "  appeared  to  be  on  the  very  verge 
of  a  settlement  and  full  allowance,  at  the  period  of  my 
grandfather's  decease.  It  was  well  known,  to  those  in 
his  confidence,  that  he  anticipated  neither  difficulty 
nor  delay.  Now,  Colonel  Pyncheon,  I  need  hardly 
say,  was  a  practical  man,  well  acquainted  with  public 
and  private  business,  and  not  at  all  the  person  to  cher 


234       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ish  ill-founded  hopes,  or  to  attempt  the  following  out 
of  an  impracticable  scheme.  It  is  obvious  to  conclude, 
therefore,  that  he  had  grounds,  not  apparent  to  his 
heirs,  for  his  confident  anticipation  of  success  in  the 
matter  of  this  Eastern  claim.  In  a  word,  I  believe,  — 
and  my  legal  advisers  coincide  in  the  belief,  which, 
moreover,  is  authorized,  to  a  certain  extent,  by  the 
family  traditions,  —  that  my  grandfather  was  in  pos- 
session of  some  deed,  or  other  document,  essential  to 
this  claim,  but  which  has  since  disappeared." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Matthew  Maule,  —  and  again, 
it  is  said,  there  was  a  dark  smile  on  his  face,  —  "  but 
what  can  a  poor  carpenter  have  to  do  with  the  grand 
affairs  of  the  Pyncheon  family  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  nothing,"  returned  Mr.  Pyncheon,  — 
"  possibly,  much !  " 

Here  ensued  a  great  many  words  between  Matthew 
Maule  and  the  proprietor  of  the  Seven  Gables,  on  the 
subject  which  the  latter  had  thus  broached.  It  seems 
(although  Mr.  Pyncheon  had  some  hesitation  in  re- 
ferring to  stories  so  exceedingly  absurd  in  their  as- 
pect) that  the  popular  belief  pointed  to  some  mysteri- 
ous connection  and  dependence,  existing  between  the 
family  of  the  Maules  and  these  vast  unrealized  pos- 
sessions of  the  Pyncheons.  It  was  an  ordinary  saying 
that  the  old  wizard,  hanged  though  he  was,  had  ob- 
tained the  best  end  of  the  bargain  in  his  contest  with 
Colonel  Pyncheon  ;  inasmuch  as  he  had  got  possession 
of  the  great  Eastern  claim,  in  exchange  for  an  acre  or 
two  of  garden-ground.  A  very  aged  woman,  recently 
dead,  had  often  used  the  metaphorical  expression,  in 
her  fireside  talk,  that  miles  and  miles  of  the  Pyncheon 
lands  had  been  shovelled  into  Maule's  grave ;  which, 
by  the  by,  was  but  a  very  shallow  nook,  between  two 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  235 

rocks,  near  the  summit  of  Gallows  Hill.  Again,  when 
the  lawyers  were  making  inquiry  for  the  missing  docu- 
ment, it  was  a  by-word  that  it  would  never  be  found, 
unless  in  the  wizard's  skeleton  hand.  So  much  weight 
had  the  shrewd  lawyers  assigned  to  these  fables,  that 
(but  Mr.  Pyncheon  did  not  see  fit  to  inform  the  car- 
penter of  the  fact)  they  had  seoretly  caused  the  wiz^ 
ard's  grave  to  be  searched.  Nothing  was  discovered5 
however,  except  that,  unaccountably,  the  right  hand 
of  the  skeleton  was  gone. 

Now,  what  was  unquestionably  important,  a  portion 
of  these  popular  rumors  could  be  traced,  though  rather 
doubtfully  and  indistinctly,  to  chance  words  and  ob- 
scure hints  of  the  executed  wizard's  son,  and  the  father 
of  this  present  Matthew  Maule.  And  here  Mr.  Pyn- 
cheon could  bring  an  item  of  his  own  personal  evi- 
dence into  play.  Though  but  a  child  at  the  time,  he 
either  remembered  or  fancied  that  Matthew's  father 
had  had  some  job  to  perform,  on  the  day  before,  or 
possibly  the  very  morning  of  the  Colonel's  decease,  in 
the  private  room  where  he  and  the  carpenter  were  at 
this  moment  talking.  Certain  papers  belonging  to 
Colonel  Pyncheon,  as  his  grandson  distinctly  recol- 
lected, had  been  spread  out  on  the  table. 

Matthew  Maule  understood  the  insinuated  suspicion. 

"My  father,"  he  said,  —  but  still  there  was  that 
dark  smile,  making  a  riddle  of  his  countenance, — 
"  my  father  was  an  honester  man  than  the  bloody  old 
Colonel!  Not  to  get  his  rights  back  again  would  he 
have  carried  off  one  of  those  papers !  " 

"  I  shall  not  bandy  words  with  you,"  observed  the 
foreign-bred  Mr.  Pyncheon,  with  haughty  composure. 
"  Nor  will  it  become  me  to  resent  any  rudeness  tow- 
ards either  my  grandf ather  or  myself.  A  gentleman, 


236       THE  HOUSE  WF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

before  seeking  intercourse  with  a  person  of  your  sta 
tion  and  habits,  will  first  consider  whether  the  urgency 
of  the  end  may  compensate  for  the  disagreeableness  of 
the  means.  It  does  so  in  the  present  instance." 

He  then  renewed  the  conversation,  and  made  great 
pecuniary  offers  to  the  carpenter,  in  case  the  latter 
should  give  information  leading  to  the  discovery  of  the 
lost  document,  and  the  consequent  success  of  the 
Eastern  claim.  For  a  long  time  Matthew  Maule  is 
said  to  have  turned  a  cold  ear  to  these  propositions. 
At  last,  however,  with  a  strange  kind  of  laugh,  he  in- 
quired  whether  Mr.  Pyncheon  would  make  over  to  him 
the  old  wizard's  homestead-ground,  together  with  the 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables,  now  standing  on  it,  in 
requital  of  the  documentary  evidence  so  urgently  re- 
quired. 

The  wild,  chimney-corner  legend  (which,  without 
copying  all  its  extravagances,  my  narrative  essentially 
follows)  here  gives  an  account  of  some  very  strange 
behavior  on  the  part  of  Colonel  Pyncheon's  portrait. 
This  picture,  it  must  be  understood,  was  supposed  to 
be  so  intimately  connected  with  the  fate  of  the  house, 
and  so  magically  built  into  its  walls,  that,  if  once  it 
should  be  removed,  that  very  instant  the  whole  edifice 
would  come  thundering  down  in  a  heap  of  dusty  ruin. 
All  through  the  foregoing  conversation  between  Mr. 
Pyncheon  and  the  carpenter,  the  portrait  had  been 
frowning,  clenching  its  fist,  and  giving  many  such 
proofs  of  excessive  discomposure,  but  without  attract- 
ing the  notice  of  either  of  the  two  colloquists.  And. 
finally,  at  Matthew  Maule's  audacious  suggestion  of  a 
transfer  of  the  seven-gabled  structure,  the  ghostly  pop-  ' 
trait  is  averred  to  have  lost  all  patience,  and  to  have 
shown  itself  oij  the  point  of  descending  bodily  from 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  237 

its  frame.  But  such  incredible  incidents  are  merely 
to  be  mentioned  aside. 

"  Give  up  this  house !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pyncheon,  in 
amazement  at  the  proposal.  "  Were  I  to  do  so,  my 
grandfather  would  not  rest  quiet  in  his  grave !  " 

"  He  never  has,  if  all  stories  are  true,"  remarked 
the  carpenter,  composedly.  "  But  that  matter  concerns 
his  grandson  more  than  it  does  Matthew  Maule.  I 
have  no  other  terms  to  propose." 

Impossible  as  he  at  first  thought  it  to  comply  with 
Maule's  conditions,  still,  on  a  second  glance,  Mr.  Pyn- 
cheon was  of  opinion  that  they  might  at  least  be  made 
matter  of  discussion.  He  himself  had  no  personal  at- 
tachment for  the  house,  nor  any  pleasant  associations 
connected  with  his  childish  residence  in  it.  On  the 
contrary,  after  seven-and-thirty  years,  the  presence  of 
his  dead  grandfather  seemed  still  to  pervade  it,  as  on 
that  morning  when  the  affrighted  boy  had  beheld  him, 
with  so  ghastly  an  aspect,  stiffening  in  his  chair.  His 
long  abode  in  foreign  parts,  moreover,  and  familiarity 
with  many  of  the  castles  and  ancestral  halls  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  marble  palaces  of  Italy,  had  caused  him 
to  look  contemptuously  at  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  whether  in  point  of  splendor  or  convenience. 
It  was  a  mansion  exceedingly  inadequate  to  the  style 
of  living  which  it  would  be  incumbent  on  Mr.  Pyn- 
cheon to  support,  after  realizing  his  territorial  rights. 
His  steward  might  deign  to  occupy  it,  but  never,  cer- 
tainly, the  great  landed  proprietor  himself.  In  the 
event  of  success,  indeed,  it  was  his  purpose  to  return 
to  England ;  nor,  to  say  the  truth,  would  he  recently 
Lave  quitted  that  more  congenial  home,  had  not  his 
own  fortune,  as  well  as  his  deceased  wife's,  begun  to 
give  symptoms  of  exhaustion.  The  Eastern  claim 


238      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

once  fairly  settled,  and  put  upon  the  firm  basis  of 
actual  possession,  Mr.  Pyncheon's  property  —  to  be 
measured  by  miles,  not  acres  —  would  be  worth  an 
earldom,  and  would  reasonably  entitle  him  to  solicit, 
or  enable  him  to  purchase,  that  elevated  dignity  from 
the  British  monarch.  Lord  Pyncheon !  —  or  the  Earl 
of  Waldo !  —  how  could  such  a  magnate  be  expected 
to  contract  his  grandeur  within  the  pitiful  compass  of 
seven  shingled  gables  ? 

In  short,  on  an  enlarged  view  of  the  business,  the 
carpenter's  terms  appeared  so  ridiculously  easy  that 
Mr.  Pyncheon  could  scarcely  forbear  laughing  in  hL 
face.  He  was  quite  ashamed,  after  the  foregoing  re- 
flections, to  propose  any  diminution  of  so  moderate  a 
recompense  for  the  immense  service  to  be  rendered. 

"I  consent  to  your  proposition,  Maule,"  cried  he. 
"Put  me  in  possession  of  the  document  essential  to 
establish  my  rights,  and  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  is  your  own !  " 

According  to  some  versions  of  the  story,  a  regular 
contract  to  the  above  effect  was  drawn  up  by  a  lawyer, 
and  signed  and  sealed  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 
Others  say  that  Matthew  Maule  was  contented  with 
a  private  written  agreement,  in  which  Mr.  Pyncheon 
pledged  his  honor  and  integrity  to  the  fulfilment  of 
the  terms  concluded  upon.  The  gentleman  then  or- 
dered wine,  which  he  and  the  carpenter  drank  to- 
gether, in  confirmation  of  their  bargain.  During  the 
whole  preceding  discussion  and  subsequent  formalities, 
the  old  Puritan's  portrait  seems  to  have  persisted  in  its 
shadowy  gestures  of  disapproval ;  but  without  effect, 
except  that,  as  Mr.  Pyncheon  set  down  the  emptied 
glass,  he  thought  he  beheld  his  grandfather  frown. 

"  This  sherry  is  too  potent  a  wine  for  me ;  it  has  a£> 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  239 

fected  my  brain  already,"  he  observed,  after  a  some- 
what  startled  look  at  the  picture.  "  On  returning  to 
Europe,  I  shall  confine  myself  to  the  more  delicate  vin- 
tages of  Italy  and  France,  the  best  of  which  will  not 
bear  transportation." 

"  My  Lord  Pyncheon  may  drink  what  wine  he  will, 
and  wherever  he  pleases,"  replied  the  carpenter,  as  if 
he  had  been  privy  to  Mr.  Pyncheou's  ambitious  pro- 
jects. "  But  first,  sir,  if  you  desire  tidings  of  this  lost 
document,  I  must  crave  the  favor  of  a  little  talk  with 
your  fair  daughter  Alice." 

"  You  are  mad,  Maule  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pyncheon, 
haughtily ;  and  now,  at  last,  there  was  anger  mixed 
up  with  his  pride.  "  What  can  my  daughter  have  to 
do  with  a  business  like  this  ?  " 

Indeed,  at  this  new  demand  on  the  carpenter's  part, 
the  proprietor  of  the  Seven  Gables  was  even  more 
thunder-struck  than  at  the  cool  proposition  to  surren- 
der his  house.  There  was,  at  least,  an  assignable 
motive  for  the  first  stipulation ;  there  appeared  to  be 
none  whatever  for  the  last.  Nevertheless,  Matthew 
Maule  sturdily  insisted  on  the  young  lady  being  sum- 
moned, and  even  gave  her  father  to  understand,  in  a 
mysterious  kind  of  explanation,  —  which  made  the 
matter  considerably  darker  than  it  looked  before,  — 
that  the  only  chance  of  acquiring  the  requisite  knowl- 
edge was  through  the  clear,  crystal  medium  of  a  pure 
and  virgin  intelligence,  like  that  of  the  fair  Alice. 
Not  to  encumber  our  story  with  Mr.  Pyncheon's  scru- 
ples, whether  of  conscience,  pride,  or  fatherly  affec- 
tion, he  at  length  ordered  his  daughter  to  be  called. 
He  well  knew  that  she  was  in  her  chamber,  and  en- 
gaged in  no  occupation  that  could  not  readily  be  laid 
aside ;  for,  as  it  happened,  ever  since  Alice's  name 


240      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

had  been  spoken,  both  her  father  and  the  carpenter 
had  heard  the  sad  and  sweet  music  of  her  harpsi- 
chord, and  the  airier  melancholy  of  her  accompanying 
voice. 

So  Alice  Pyncheon  was  summoned  and  appeared. 
A  portrait  of  this  young  lady,  painted  by  a  Venetian 
artist,  and  left  by  her  father  in  England,  is  said  to 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  present  Duke  of 
Devonshire,  and  to  be  now  preserved  at  Chatsworth ; 
not  on  account  of  any  associations  with  the  original, 
but  for  its  value  as  a  picture,  and  the  high  character 
of  beauty  in  the  countenance.  If  ever  there  was  a 
lady  born,  and  set  apart  from  the  world's  vulgar  mass 
by  a  certain  gentle  and  cold  stateliness,  it  was  this 
very  Alice  Pyncheon.  Yet  there  was  the  womanly 
mixture  in  her ;  the  tenderness,  or,  at  least,  the  tender 
capabilities.  For  the  sake  of  that  redeeming  quality, 
a  man  of  generous  nature  would  have  forgiven  all  her 
pride,  and  have  been  content,  almost,  to  lie  down  in 
her  path,  and  let  Alice  set  her  slender  foot  upon  his 
heart.  All  that  he  would  have  required  was  simply 
the  acknowledgment  that  he  was  indeed  a  man,  and  a 
fellow-being,  moulded  of  the  same  elements  as  she. 

As  Alice  came  into  the  room,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
carpenter,  who  was  standing  near  its  centre,  clad  in  a 
green  woollen  jacket,  a  pair  of  loose  breeches,  open  a1 
the  knees,  and  with  a  long  pocket  for  his  rule,  the  en<i 
of  which  protruded ;  it  was  as  proper  a  mark  of  th* 
artisan's  calling,  as  Mr.  Pyncheon's  full-dress  sword 
of  that  gentleman's  aristocratic  pretensions.  A  glow 
of  artistic  approval  brightened  over  Alice  Pyncheon's 
face  ;  she  was  struck  with  admiration  —  which  she 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal — of  the  remarkable  come- 
iness,  strength,  and  energy  of  Maule's  figure.  But 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  241 

that  admiring  glance  (which  most  other  men,  per- 
haps, would  have  cherished  as  a  sweet  recollection, 
all  through  life)  the  carpenter  never  forgave.  It 
must  have  been  the  devil  himself  that  made  Maule 
so  subtile  in  his  perception. 

"Does  the  girl  look  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  brute 
beast?"  thought  he,  setting  his  teeth.  "She  shall 
know  whether  I  have  a  human  spirit ;  and  the  worse 
for  her,  if  it  prove  stronger  than  her  own !  " 

"  My  father,  you  sent  for  me,"  said  Alice,  in  her 
sweet  and  harp-like  voice.  "  But,  if  you  have  busi- 
ness with  this  young  man,  pray  let  me  go  again.  You 
know  I  do  not  love  this  room,  in  spite  of  that  Claude, 
with  which  you  try  to  bring  back  sunny  recollections." 

"  Stay  a  moment,  young  lady,  if  you  please !  "  said 
Matthew  Maule.  "  My  business  with  your  father  is 
over.  With  yourself,  it  is  now  to  begin !  " 

Alice  looked  towards  her  father,  in  surprise  and  in- 
quiry. 

"Yes,  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Pyncheon,  with  some  dis- 
turbance and  confusion.  "  This  young  man  —  his 
name  is  Matthew  Maule  —  professes,  so  far  as  I  can 
understand  him,  to  be  able  to  discover,  through  your 
means,  a  certain  paper  or  parchment,  which  was  miss- 
ing long  before  your  birth.  The  importance  of  the 
document  in  question  renders  it  advisable  to  neglect 
no  possible,  even  if  improbable,  method  of  regaining 
it.  You  will  therefore  oblige  me,  my  dear  Alice,  by 
answering  this  person's  inquiries,  and  complying  with 
his  lawful  and  reasonable  requests,  so  far  as  they  may 
appear  to  have  the  aforesaid  object  in  view.  As  I 
shall  remain  in  the  room,  you  need  apprehend  no  rude 
nor  unbecoming  deportment,  on  the  young  man's  part; 
and,  at  your  slightest  wish,  of  course,  the  investigar 

VOL..  in.  16 


242     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

tion,  or  whatever  we  may  call  it,  shall  immediately  be 
broken  off. 

"  Mistress  Alice  Pyncheon,"  remarked  Matthew 
Maule,  with  the  utmost  deference,  but  yet  a  half-hid- 
den sarcasm  in  his  look  and  tone,  "  will  no  doubt  feel 
herself  quite  safe  in  her  father's  presence,  and  under 
his  all-sufficient  protection." 

"  I  certainly  shall  entertain  no  manner  of  apprehen- 
sion, with  my  father  at  hand,"  said  Alice,  with  maid- 
enly dignity.  "Neither  do  I  conceive  that  a  lady, 
while  true  to  herself,  can  have  aught  to  fear  from 
whomsoever,  or  in  any  circumstances !  " 

Poor  Alice !  By  what  unhappy  impulse  did  she 
thus  put  herself  at  once  on  terms  of  defiance  against 
a  strength  which  she  could  not  estimate  ? 

"  Then,  Mistress  Alice,"  said  Matthew  Maule,  hand- 
ing a  chair,  —  gracefully  enough,  for  a  craftsman,  — 
"  will  it  please  you  only  to  sit  down,  and  do  me  the 
favor  (though  altogether  beyond  a  poor  carpenter's 
deserts)  to  fix  your  eyes  on  mine  !  " 

Alice  complied.  She  was  very  proud.  Setting 
aside  all  advantages  of  rank,  this  fair  girl  deemed 
herself  conscious  of  a  power  —  combined  of  beauty, 
high,  unsullied  purity,  and  the  preservative  force  of 
womanhood — that  could  make  her  sphere  impenetra- 
ble, unless  betrayed  by  treachery  within.  She  in- 
stinctively knew,  it  may  be,  that  some  sinister  or  evil 
potency  was  now  striving  to  pass  her  barriers ;  nor 
would  she  decline  the  contest.  So  Alice  put  woman's 
might  against  man's  might ;  a  match  not  often  equal 
on  the  part  of  woman. 

Her  father  meanwhile  had  turned  away,  and  seemed 
absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  a  landscape  by  Claude, 
where  a  shadowy  and  sun-streaked  vista  penetrated  so 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  243 

temotely  into  an  ancient  wood,  that  it  would  nave  been 
no  wonder  if  his  fancy  had  lost  itself  in  the  picture's 
bewildering  depths.  But,  in  truth,  the  picture  was  no 
more  to  him  at  that  moment  than  the  blank  wall 
against  which  it  hung.  His  mind  was  haunted  with 
the  many  and  strange  tales  which  he  had  heard,  at- 
tributing mysterious  if  not  supernatural  endowments 
to  these  Maules,  as  well  the  grandson  here  present  as 
his  two  immediate  ancestors.  Mr.  Pyncheon's  long 
residence  abroad,  and  intercourse  with  men  of  wit  and 
fashion,  —  courtiers,  worldlings,  and  free-thinkers,  — 
had  done  much  towards  obliterating  the  grim  Puritan 
superstitions,  which  no  man  of  New  England  birth  at 
that  early  period  could  entirely  escape.  But,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  not  a  whole  community  believed 
Maule's  grandfather  to  be  a  wizard?  Had  not  the 
crime  been  proved  ?  Had  not  the  wizard  died  for  it  ? 
Had  he  not  bequeathed  a  legacy  of  hatred  against  the 
Pyncheons  to  this  only  grandson,  who,  as  it  appeared, 
was  now  about  to  exercise  a  subtle  influence  over  the 
daughter  of  his  enemy's  house  ?  Might  not  this  in- 
fluence be  the  same  that  was  called  witchcraft  ? 

Turning  half  around,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Maule's 
figure  in  the  looking-glass.  At  some  paces  from  Alice, 
with  his  arms  uplifted  in  the  air,  the  carpenter  made  a 
gesture  as  if  directing  downward  a  slow,  ponderous, 
and  invisible  weight  upon  the  maiden. 

"  Stay,  Maule  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pyncheon,  stepping 
forward.  "  I  forbid  your  proceeding  further  !  " 

"  Pray,  my  dear  father,  do  not  interrupt  the  young 
man,"  said  Alice,  without  changing  her  position.  "  His 
efforts,  I  assure  you,  will  prove  very  harmless." 

Again  Mr.  Pyncheon  turned  his  eyes  towards  the 
Claude.  It  was  then  his  daughter's  will,  in  opposition 


£44       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

to  his  own,  that  the  experiment  should  be  fully  tried 
Henceforth,  therefore,  he  did  but  consent,  not  urge  it 
And  was  it  not  for  her  sake  far  more  than  for  hia 
own  that  he  desired  its  success?  That  lost  parch- 
ment once  restored,  the  beautiful  Alice  Pyncheon,  with 
the  rich  dowry  which  he  could  then  bestow,  might  wed 
an  English  duke  or  a  German  reigning-prince,  instead 
of  some  New  England  clergyman  or  lawyer !  At  the 
thought,  the  ambitious  father  almost  consented,  in  Ms 
heart,  that,  if  the  devil's  power  were  needed  to  the  ac- 
complishment of  this  great  object,  Maule  might  evoke 
him.  Alice's  own  purity  would  be  her  safeguard. 

With  his  mind  full  of  imaginary  magnificence,  Mr. 
Pyncheon  heard  a  half -uttered  exclamation  from  his 
daughter.  It  was  very  faint  and  low ;  so  indistinct 
that  there  seemed  but  half  a  will  to  shape  out  the 
words,  and  too  undefined  a  purport  to  be  intelligible. 
Yet  it  was  a  call  for  help !  —  his  conscience  never 
doubted  it ;  —  and,  little  more  than  a  whisper  to  his 
ear,  it  was  a  dismal  shriek,  and  long  reechoed  so,  in 
the  region  round  his  heart  !  But  this  time  the  father 
did  not  turn. 

After  a  further  interval,  Maule  spoke. 

"  Behold  your  daughter !  "  said  he. 

Mr.  Pyncheon  came  hastily  forward.  The  carpenter 
was  standing  erect  in  front  of  Alice's  chair,  and  point* 
ing  his  finger  towards  the  maiden  with  an  expression 
of  triumphant  power  the  limits  of  which  could  not  be 
defined,  as,  indeed,  its  scope  stretched  vaguely  towards 
the  unseen  and  the  infinite.  Alice  sat  in  an  attitude 
of  profound  repose,  with  the  long  brown  lashes  droop- 
ing over  her  eyes. 

"  There  she  is  I  "  said  the  carpenter.  "  Speak  to 
her!" 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  245 

"  Alice  !  My  daughter  1  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pyncheon. 
"*  My  own  Alice !  " 

She  did  not  stir. 

"Louder!"  said  Maule,  smiling. 

"  Alice  !  Awake !  "  cried  her  father.  "  It  troubles 
me  to  see  you  thus  !  Awake !  " 

He  spoke  loudly,  with  terror  in  his  voice,  and  close 
to  that  delicate  ear  which  had  always  been  so  sensitive 
to  every  discord.  But  the  sound  evidently  reached 
her  not.  It  is  indescribable  what  a  sense  of  remote, 
dim,  unattainable  distance,  betwixt  himself  and  Alice, 
was  impressed  on  the  father  by  this  impossibility  of 
reaching  her  with  his  voice. 

"  Best  touch  her  1  "  said  Matthew  Maule.  "  Shake 
the  girl,  and  roughly  too  !  My  hands  are  hardened 
with  too  much  use  of  axe,  saw,  and  plane,  —  else  I 
might  help  you  !  " 

Mr.  Pyncheon  took  her  hand,  and  pressed  it  with 
the  earnestness  of  startled  emotion.  He  kissed  her, 
with  so  great  a  heart-throb  in  the  kiss,  that  he  thought 
she  must  needs  feel  it.  Then,  in  a  gust  of  anger  at 
her  insensibility,  he  shook  her  maiden  form  with  a 
violence  which,  the  next  moment,  it  affrighted  him  to 
remember.  He  withdrew  his  encircling  arms,  and 
Alice  —  whose  figure,  though  flexible,  had  been  wholly 
impassive  —  relapsed  into  the  same  attitude  as  before 
these  attempts  to  arouse  her.  Maule  having  shifted 
his  position,  her  face  was  turned  towards  him  slightly, 
but  with  what  seemed  to  be  a  reference  of  her  very 
slumber  to  his  guidance. 

Then  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  behold  how  the  man 
of  conventionalities  shook  the  powder  out  of  his  peri' 
wig;  how  the  reserved  and  stately  gentleman  forgot 
his  dignity ;  how  the  gold-embroidered  waistcoat  flick- 


246       THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ered  and  glistened  in  the  firelight  with  the  convulsion 
of  rage,  terror,  and  sorrow  in  the  human  heart  that 
was  beating  under  it. 

"  Villain  ! "  cried  Mr.  Pyncheon,  shaking  his 
clenched  fist  at  Maule.  "  You  and  the  fiend  together 
have  robbed  me  of  my  daughter!  Give  her  back, 
spawn  of  the  old  wizard,  or  you  shall  climb  Gallows 
Hill  in  your  grandfather's  footsteps  !  " 

"  Softly,  Mr.  Pyncheon !  "  said  the  carpenter,  with 
scornful  composure.  "  Softly,  an  it  please  your  wor- 
ship, else  you  will  spoil  those  rich  lace  ruffles  at  your 
wrists !  Is  it  my  crime  if  you  have  sold  your  daughter 
for  the  mere  hope  of  getting  a  sheet  of  yellow  parch- 
ment into  your  clutch?  There  sits  Mistress  Alice 
quietly  asleep !  Now  let  Matthew  Maule  try  whether 
she  be  as  proud  as  the  carpenter  found  her  awhile 
since." 

He  spoke,  and  Alice  responded,  with  a  soft,  sub- 
dued, inward  acquiescence,  and  a  bending  of  her  form 
towards  him,  like  the  flame  of  a  torch  when  it  indi- 
cates a  gentle  draught  of  air.  He  beckoned  with  his 
hand,  and,  rising  from  her  chair,  —  blindly,  but  un- 
doubtingly,  as  tending  to  her  sure  and  inevitable  cen- 
tre, —  the  proud  Alice  approached  him.  He  waved 
her  back,  and,  retreating,  Alice  sank  again  into  her 
seat. 

"  She  is  mine !  "  said  Matthew  Maule.  "  Mine,  by 
the  right  of  the  strongest  spirit !  " 

In  the  further  progress  of  the  legend,  there  is  a 
long,  grotesque,  and  occasionally  awe-striking  account 
of  the  carpenter's  incantations  (if  so  they  are  to  be 
called),  with  a  view  of  discovering  the  lost  document 
It  appears  to  have  been  his  object  to  convert  the  mind 
of  Alice  into  a  kind  of  telescopic  medium,  through 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  247 

which  Mr.  Pyncheon  and  himself  might  obtain  a 
glimpse  into  the  spiritual  world.  He  succeeded,  ac« 
cordingly,  in  holding  an  imperfect  sort  of  intercourse, 
at  one  remove,  with  the  departed  personages,  in  whose 
custody  the  so  much  valued  secret  had  been  carried 
beyond  the  precincts  of  earth.  Puring  her  trance, 
Alice  described  three  figures  as  being  present  to  her 
spiritualized  perception.  One  was  an  aged,  dignified, 
stern-looking  gentleman,  clad  as  for  a  solemn  festival 
in  grave  and  costly  attire,  but  with  a  great  bloodstain 
on  his  richly  wrought  band  ;  the  second,  an  aged  man, 
meanly  dressed,  with  a  dark  and  malign  countenance, 
and  a  broken  halter  about  his  neck ;  the  third,  a  per- 
son not  so  advanced  in  life  as  the  former  two,  but  be- 
yond the  middle  age,  wearing  a  coarse  woollen  tunic 
and  leather  breeches,  and  with  a  carpenter's  rule  stick- 
ing out  of  his  side  pocket.  These  three  visionary 
characters  possessed  a  mutual  knowledge  of  the  miss- 
ing document.  One  of  them,  in  truth,  — it  was  he 
with  the  blood-stain  on  his  band,  —  seemed,  unless  his 
gestures  were  misunderstood,  to  hold  the  parchment 
in  his  immediate  keeping,  but  was  prevented,  by  his 
two  partners  in  the  mystery,  from  disburdening  him- 
self of  the  trust.  Finally,  when  he  showed  a  purpose 
of  shouting  forth  the  secret,  loudly  enough  to  be  heard 
from  his  own  sphere  into  that  of  mortals,  his  compan- 
ions struggled  with  him,  and  pressed  their  hands  over 
his  mouth ;  and  forthwith  —  whether  that  he  were 
choked  by  it,  or  that  the  secret  itself  was  of  a  crim- 
son hue  —  there  was  a  fresh  flow  of  blood  upon  his 
band.  Upon  this,  the  two  meanly  dressed  figures 
mocked  and  jeered  at  the  much-abashed  old  dignitary, 
and  pointed  their  fingers  at  the  stain. 

At  this  juncture,  Maule  turned  to  Mr.  Pyncheon. 


248     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  It  will  never  be  allowed,"  said  he.  "  The  custody 
of  this  secret,  that  would  so  enrich  his  heirs,  makes 
part  of  your  grandfather's  retribution.  He  must  choke 
with  it  until  it  is  no  longer  of  any  value.  And  keep 
you  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables !  It  is  too  dear 
bought  an  inheritance,  and  too  heavy  with  the  curse 
upon  it,  to  be  shifted  yet  awhile  from  the  Colonel's 
posterity !  " 

Mr.  Pyncheon  tried  to  speak,  but  —  what  with  fear 
and  passion  —  could  make  only  a  gurgling  murmur  in 
his  throat.  The  carpenter  smiled. 

"  Aha,  worshipful  sir !  —  so,  you  have  old  Maule's 
blood  to  drink  !  "  said  he,  jeeringly. 

"  Fiend  in  man's  shape !  why  dost  thou  keep  do- 
minion over  my  child  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Pyncheon,  when 
his  choked  utterance  could  make  way.  "Give  me 
back  my  daughter !  Then  go  thy  ways ;  and  may  we 
never  meet  again !  " 

"  Your  daughter !  "  said  Matthew  Maule.  "  Why, 
she  is  fairly  mine  !  Nevertheless,  not  to  be  too  hard 
with  fair  Mistress  Alice,  I  will  leave  her  in  your  keep- 
ing; but  I  do  not  warrant  you  that  she  shall  never 
have  occasion  to  remember  Maule,  the  carpenter." 

He  waved  his  hands  with  an  upward  motion ;  and, 
after  a  few  repetitions  of  similar  gestures,  the  beauti- 
ful Alice  Pyncheon  awoke  from  her  strange  trance. 
She  awoke,  without  the  slightest  recollection  of  her 
visionary  experience  ;  but  as  one  losing  herself  in  a 
momentary  reverie,  and  returning  to  the  consciousness 
of  actual  life,  in  almost  as  brief  an  interval  as  the 
down-sinking  flame  of  the  hearth  should  quiver  again 
up  the  chimney.  On  recognizing  Matthew  Maule,  she 
assumed  an  air  of  somewhat  cold  but  gentle  dignity, 
the  rather,  as  there  was  a  certain  peculiar  smile  on  the 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  249 

carpenter's  visage  that  stirred  the  native  pride  of  the 
fair  Alice.  So  ended,  for  that  time,  the  quest  for  the 
lost  title-deed  of  the  Pyncheon  territory  at  the  East- 
ward ;  nor,  though  often  subsequently  renewed,  has  it 
ever  yet  befallen  a  Pyncheon  to  set  his  eye  upon  that 
parchment.  , 

But,  alas  for  the  beautiful,  the  gentle,  yet  too 
haughty  Alice !  A  power  that  she  little  dreamed  of 
had  laid  its  grasp  upon  her  maiden  soul.  A  will,  most 
unlike  her  own,  constrained  her  to  do  its  grotesque 
and  fantastic  bidding.  Her  father,  as  it  proved,  had 
martyred  his  poor  child  to  an  inordinate  desire  for 
measuring  his  land  by  miles  instead  of  acres.  And, 
therefore,  while  Alice  Pyncheon  lived,  she  was  Maule's 
slave,  in  a  bondage  more  humiliating,  a  thousand-fold, 
than  that  which  binds  its  chain  around  the  body. 
Seated  by  his  humble  fireside,  Maule  had  but  to  wave 
his  hand ;  and,  wherever  the  proud  lady  chanced  to 
be,  —  whether  in  her  chamber,  or  entertaining  her 
father's  stately  guests,  or  worshipping  at  church,  — 
whatever  her  place  or  occupation,  her  spirit  passed 
from  beneath  her  own  control,  and  bowed  itself  to 
Maule.  "  Alice,  laugh  !  "  —  the  carpenter,  beside  his 
hearth,  would  say  ;  or  perhaps  intensely  will  it,  with- 
out a  spoken  word.  And,  even  were  it  prayer-time, 
or  at  a  funeral,  Alice  must  break  into  wild  laughter. 
"  Alice,  be  sad  ! "  —  and,  at  the  instant,  down  would 
come  her  tears,  quenching  all  the  mirth  of  those 
around  her  like  sudden  rain  upon  a  bonfire.  "  Alice, 
dance ! "  —  and  dance  she  would,  not  in  such  court- 
like  measures  as  she  had  learned  abroad,  but  some 
high-paced  jig,  or  hop-skip  rigadoon,  befitting  the 
brisk  lasses  at  a  rustic  merry-making.  It  seemed  to 
be  Maule's  impulse,  not  to  ruin  Alice,  nor  to  visit  her 


248     THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  It  will  never  be  allowed,"  said  he.  "  The  custody 
of  this  secret,  that  would  so  enrich  his  heirs,  makes 
part  of  your  grandfather's  retribution.  He  must  choke 
with  it  until  it  is  no  longer  of  any  value.  And  keep 
you  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables !  It  is  too  dear 
bought  an  inheritance,  and  too  heavy  with  the  curse 
upon  it,  to  be  shifted  yet  awhile  from  the  Colonel's 
posterity !  " 

Mr.  Pyncheon  tried  to  speak,  but  —  what  with  fear 
and  passion  —  could  make  only  a  gurgling  murmur  in 
his  throat.  The  carpenter  smiled. 

"  Aha,  worshipful  sir !  —  so,  you  have  old  Maule's 
blood  to  drink  !  "  said  he,  jeeringly. 

"  Fiend  in  man's  shape !  why  dost  thou  keep  do- 
minion over  my  child  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Pyncheon,  when 
his  choked  utterance  could  make  way.  "Give  me 
back  my  daughter !  Then  go  thy  ways ;  and  may  we 
never  meet  again !  " 

"  Your  daughter !  "  said  Matthew  Maule.  "  Why, 
she  is  fairly  mine  !  Nevertheless,  not  to  be  too  hard 
with  fair  Mistress  Alice,  I  will  leave  her  in  your  keep- 
ing ;  but  I  do  not  warrant  you  that  she  shall  never 
have  occasion  to  remember  Maule,  the  carpenter." 

He  waved  his  hands  with  an  upward  motion ;  and, 
after  a  few  repetitions  of  similar  gestures,  the  beauti- 
ful Alice  Pyncheon  awoke  from  her  strange  trance. 
She  awoke,  without  the  slightest  recollection  of  her 
visionary  experience  ;  but  as  one  losing  herself  in  a 
momentary  reverie,  and  returning  to  the  consciousness 
of  actual  life,  in  almost  as  brief  an  interval  as  the 
down-sinking  flame  of  the  hearth  should  quiver  again 
up  the  chimney.  On  recognizing  Matthew  Maule,  she 
assumed  an  air  of  somewhat  cold  but  gentle  dignity, 
the  rather,  as  there  was  a  certain  peculiar  smile  on  the 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  249 

carpenter's  visage  that  stirred  the  native  pride  of  the 
fair  Alice.  So  ended,  for  that  time,  the  quest  for  the 
lost  title-deed  of  the  Pyncheon  territory  at  the  East- 
ward ;  nor,  though  often  subsequently  renewed,  has  it 
ever  yet  befallen  a  Pyncheon  to  set  his  eye  upon  that 
parchment.  , 

But,  alas  for  the  beautiful,  the  gentle,  yet  too 
haughty  Alice !  A  power  that  she  little  dreamed  of 
had  laid  its  grasp  upon  her  maiden  soul.  A  will,  most 
unlike  her  own,  constrained  her  to  do  its  grotesque 
and  fantastic  bidding.  Her  father,  as  it  proved,  had 
martyred  his  poor  child  to  an  inordinate  desire  for 
measuring  his  land  by  miles  instead  of  acres.  And, 
therefore,  while  Alice  Pyncheon  lived,  she  was  Maule's 
slave,  in  a  bondage  more  humiliating,  a  thousand-fold, 
than  that  which  binds  its  chain  around  the  body, 
Seated  by  his  humble  fireside,  Maule  had  but  to  wave 
his  hand ;  and,  wherever  the  proud  lady  chanced  to 
be,  —  whether  in  her  chamber,  or  entertaining  her 
father's  stately  guests,  or  worshipping  at  church,  — 
whatever  her  place  or  occupation,  her  spirit  passed 
from  beneath  her  own  control,  and  bowed  itself  to 
Maule.  "  Alice,  laugh  !  "  —  the  carpenter,  beside  his 
hearth,  would  say  ;  or  perhaps  intensely  will  it,  with- 
out a  spoken  word.  And,  even  were  it  prayer-time, 
or  at  a  funeral,  Alice  must  break  into  wild  laughter. 
"  Alice,  be  sad  ! "  —  and,  at  the  instant,  down  would 
come  her  tears,  quenching  all  the  mirth  of  those 
around  her  like  sudden  rain  upon  a  bonfire.  "  Alice, 
dance !  "  —  and  dance  she  would,  not  in  such  court- 
like  measures  as  she  had  learned  abroad,  but  some 
high-paced  jig,  or  hop-skip  rigadoon,  befitting  the 
brisk  lasses  at  a  rustic  merry-making.  It  seemed  to 
be  Maule's  impulse,  not  to  ruin  Alice,  nor  to  visit  her 


250       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

with  any  black  or  gigantic  mischief,  which  would  have 
crowned  her  sorrows  with  the  grace  of  tragedy,  but  to 
wreak  a  low,  ungenerous  scorn  upon  her.  Thus  all 
the  dignity  of  life  was  lost.  She  felt  herself  too  much 
abased,  and  longed  to  change  natures  with  some 
worm! 

One  evening,  at  a  bridal-party  (but  not  her  own ; 
for,  so  lost  from  self-control,  she  would  have  deemed 
it  sin  to  marry),  poor  Alice  was  beckoned  forth  by  her 
unseen  despot,  and  constrained,  in  her  gossamer  white 
dress  and  satin  slippers,  to  hasten  along  the  street 
to  the  mean  dwelling  of  a  laboring-man.  There  was 
laughter  and  good  cheer  within  ;  for  Matthew  Maule, 
that  night,  was  to  wed  the  laborer's  daughter,  and  had 
summoned  proud  Alice  Pyncheon  to  wait  upon  his 
bride.  And  so  she  did ;  and  when  the  twain  were 
one,  Alice  awoke  out  of  her  enchanted  sleep.  Yet,  no 
longer  proud,  —  humbly,  and  with  a  smile  all  steeped 
in  sadness,  —  she  kissed  Maule's  wife,  and  went  her 
way.  It  was  an  inclement  night ;  the  southeast  wind 
drove  the  mingled  snow  and  rain  into  her  thinly -shel- 
tered bosom ;  her  satin  slippers  were  wet  through  and 
through,  as  she  trod  the  muddy  sidewalks.  The  next 
day  a  cold ;  soon,  a  settled  cough ;  anon,  a  hectic 
cheek,  a  wasted  form,  that  sat  beside  the  harpsichord, 
and  filled  the  house  with  music  !  Music,  in  which  a 
strain  of  the  heavenly  choristers  was  echoed  !  Oh,  joy ! 
For  Alice  had  borne  her  last  humiliation !  Oh,  greater 
joy !  For  Alice  was  penitent  of  her  one  earthly  sin^ 
and  proud  no  more  I 

The  Pyncheons  made  a  great  funeral  for  Alice. 
The  kith  and  kin  were  there,  and  the  whole  respecta- 
bility of  the  town  besides.  But,  last  in  the  procession, 
came  Matthew  Maule,  gnashing  his  teeth,  as  if  he 


ALICE  PYNCHEON.  251 

would  have  bitten  his  own  heart  in  twain,  —  the  dark- 
est and  wofullest'  man  that  ever  walked  behind  a 
corpse  !  He  meant  to  humble  Alice,  not  to  kill  her ; 
but  he  had  taken  a  woman's  delicate  soul  into  his  rude 
gripe,  to  play  with  —  and  she  was  dead  I 


254   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

of  which  it  has  rolled.  "  No,  no !  I  consider  myself 
as  having  been  very  attentive  ;  and,  though  I  don't  re- 
member the  incidents  quite  distinctly,  yet  I  have  an 
impression  of  a  vast  deal  of  trouble  and  calamity,  — 
so,  no  doubt,  the  story  will  prove  exceedingly  attrac- 
tive." 

By  this  time  the  sun  had  gone  down,  and  was  tint- 
ing the  clouds  towards  the  zenith  with  those  bright 
hues  which  are  not  seen  there  until  some  time  after 
sunset,  and  when  the  horizon  has  quite  lost  its  richer 
brilliancy.  The  moon,  too,  which  had  long  been  climb- 
ing overhead,  and  unobtrusively  melting  its  disk  into 
the  azure,  —  like  an  ambitious  demagogue,  who  hides 
his  aspiring  purpose  by  assuming  the  prevalent  hue  of 
popular  sentiment,  —  now  began  to  shine  out,  broad 
and  oval,  in  its  middle  pathway.  These  silvery  beams 
were  already  powerful  enough  to  change  the  character 
of  the  lingering  daylight.  They  softened  and  embel- 
lished the  aspect  of  the  old  house  ;  although  the  shad- 
ows fell  deeper  into  the  angles  of  its  many  gables,  and 
lay  brooding  under  the  projecting  story,  and  within 
the  half-open  door.  With  the  lapse  of  every  moment, 
the  garden  grew  more  picturesque  ;  the  fruit-trees, 
shrubbery,  and  flower -bushes  had  a  dark  obscurity 
among  them.  The  commonplace  characteristics  — 
which,  at  noontide,  it  seemed  to  have  taken  a  century 
of  sordid  life  to  accumulate  —  were  now  transfigured 
by  a  charm  of  romance.  A  hundred  mysterious  years 
were  whispering  among  the  leaves,  whenever  the  slight 
sea-breeze  found  its  way  thither  and  stirred  them. 
Through  the  foliage  that  roofed  the  little  summer- 
house  the  moonlight  flickered  to  and  fro,  and  fell 
silvery  white  on  the  dark  floor,  the  table,  and  the 
circular  bench,  with  a  continual  shift  and  play,  ao- 


PHCEBE'S  GOOD-BY.  265 

cording  as  the  chinks  and  wayward  crevices  among 
the  twigs  admitted  or  shut  out  the  glimmer. 

So  sweetly  cool  was  the  atmosphere,  after  all  the 
feverish  day,  that  the  summer  eve  might  be  fancied  as 
sprinkling  dews  and  liquid  moonlight,  with  a  dash  of 
icy  temper  in  them,  out  of  a  silver  vase.  Here  and 
there,  a  few  drops  of  this  freshness  were  scattered  on 
a  human  heart,  and  gave  it  youth  again,  and  sympathy 
with  the  eternal  youth  of  nature.  The  artist  chanced 
to  be  one  on  whom  the  reviving  influence  fell.  It 
made  him  feel  —  what  he  sometimes  almost  forgot, 
thrust  so  early  as  he  had  been  into  the  rude  struggle 
of  man  with  man  —  how  youthful  he  still  was. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  observed,  "that  I  never 
watched  the  coming  of  so  beautiful  an  eve,  and  never 
felt  anything  so  very  much  like  happiness  as  at  this 
moment.  After  all,  what  a  good  world  we  live  in  I 
How  good,  and  beautiful !  How  young  it  is,  too,  with 
nothing  really  rotten  or  age-worn  in  it !  This  old 
house,  for  example,  which  sometimes  has  positively  op» 
pressed  my  breath  with  its  smell  of  decaying  timber ! 
And  this  garden,  where  the  black  mould  always  clings 
to  my  spade,  as  if  I  were  a  sexton  delving  in  a  grave- 
yard !  Could  I  keep  the  feeling  that  now  possesses 
me,  the  garden  would  every  day  be  virgin  soil,  with 
the  earth's  first  freshness  in  the  flavor  of  its  beans  and 
squashes  ;  and  the  house!  —  it  would  be  like  a  bower 
in  Eden,  blossoming  with  the  earliest  roses  that  God 
ever  made.  Moonlight,  and  the  sentiment  in  man's 
heart  responsive  to  it,  are  the  greatest  of  renovators 
&nd  reformers.  And  all  other  reform  and  renovation, 
I  suppose,  will  prove  to  be  no  better  than  moon- 
shine!" 

"I  have  been  happier  than  I  am  now;  at  least, 


256      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

much  gayer,"  said  Phoebe,  thoughtfully.  "  Yet  I  am 
sensible  of  a  great  charm  in  this  brightening  moon- 
light ;  and  I  love  to  watch  how  the  day,  tired  as  it  is, 
lags  away  reluctantly,  and  hates  to  be  called  yester- 
day so  soon.  I  never  cared  much  about  moonlight 
before.  What  is  there,  I  wonder,  so  beautiful  in  it, 
to-night?" 

"  And  you  have  never  felt  it  before  ?  "  inquired  the 
artist,  looking  earnestly  at  the  girl  through  the  twi- 
light. 

"  Never,"  answered  Phoebe ;  "  and  life  does  not  look 
the  same,  now  that  I  have  felt  it  so.  It  seems  as  if  I 
had  looked  at  everything,  hitherto,  in  broad  daylight, 
or  else  in  the  ruddy  light  of  a  cheerful  fire,  glimmer- 
ing and  dancing  through  a  room.  Ah,  poor  me  !  "  she 
added,  with  a  half -melancholy  laugh.  "  I  shall  never 
be  so  merry  as  before  I  knew  Cousin  Hepzibah  and 
poor  Cousin  Clifford.  I  have  grown  a  great  deal 
older,  in  this  little  time.  Older,  and,  I  hope,  wiser, 
and,  —  not  exactly  sadder,  —  but,  certainly,  with  not 
half  so  much  lightness  in  my  spirits !  I  have  given 
them  my  sunshine,  and  have  been  glad  to  give  it ;  but, 
of  course,  I  cannot  both  give  and  keep  it.  They  are 
welcome,  notwithstanding ! " 

"  You  have  lost  nothing,  Phoebe,  worth  keeping,  nor 
which  it  was  possible  to  keep,"  said  Holgrave,  after  a 
pause.  "  Our  first  youth  is  of  no  value ;  for  we  are 
never  conscious  of  it  until  after  it  is  gone.  But 
sometimes  —  always,  I  suspect,  unless  one  is  exceed, 
ingly  unfortunate — there  comes  a  sense  of  second 
youth,  gushing  out  of  the  heart's  joy  at  being  in  love ; 
or,  possibly,  it  may  come  to  crown  some  other  grand 
festival  in  life,  if  any  other  such  there  be.  This  be- 
moaning of  one's  self  (as  you  do  now)  over  the  first, 


PHCEBE'S  GOOD-BY.  257 

careless,  shallow  gayety  of  youth  departed,  and  this 
profound  happiness  at  youth  regained,  —  so  much 
deeper  and  richer  than  that  we  lost,  —  are  essential  to 
the  soul's  development.  In  some  cases,  the  two  states 
come  almost  simultaneously,  and  mingle  the  sadness 
and  the  rapture  in  one  mysterious  emotion." 

"  I  hardly  think  I  understand  you,"  said  Phrebe. 

"No  wonder,"  replied  Holgrave,  smiling;  "for  I 
have  told  you  a  secret  which  I  hardly  began  to  know 
before  I  found  myself  giving  it  utterance.  Remember 
it,  however ;  and  when  the  truth  becomes  clear  to  you, 
then  think  of  this  moonlight  scene !  " 

"  It  is  entirely  moonlight  now,  except  only  a  little 
flush  of  faint  crimson,  upward  from  the  west,  between 
those  buildings,"  remarked  Phffibe.  "  I  must  go  in. 
Cousin  Hepzibah  is  not  quick  at  figures,  and  will  give 
herself  a  headache  over  the  day's  accounts,  unless  I 
help  her." 

But  Holgrave  detained  her  a  little  longer. 

"Miss  Hepzibah  tells  me,"  observed  he,  "that  yon 
return  to  the  country  in  a  few  days." 

"  Yes,  but  only  for  a  little  while,"  answered  Phffibe ; 
"  for  I  look  upon  this  as  my  present  home.  I  go  to 
make  a  few  arrangements,  and  to  take  a  more  deliber- 
ate leave  of  my  mother  and  friends.  It  is  pleasant  to 
live  where  one  is  much  desired  and  very  useful ;  and 
I  think  I  may  have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  myself 
so  here." 

"You  surely  may,  and  more  than  you  imagine,** 
said  the  artist.  "Whatever  health,  comfort,  and 
natural  life  exists  in  the  house,  is  embodied  in  your 
person.  These  blessings  came  along  with  you,  and 
will  vanish  when  you  leave  the  threshold.  Miss  Hep- 
zibah, by  secluding  herself  from  society,  has  lost  all 

TOL.  m.  17 


258     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

true  relation  with  it,  and  is,  in  fact,  dead ;  although 
she  galvanizes  herself  into  a  semblance  of  life,  and 
stands  behind  her  counter,  afflicting  the  world  with  a 
greatly -to -be -deprecated  scowl.  Your  poor  cousin 
Clifford  is  another  dead  and  long-buried  person,  on 
whom  the  governor  and  council  have  wrought  a  necro* 
mantic  miracle.  I  should  not  wonder  if  he  were  tc 
crumble  away,  some  morning,  after  you  are  gone,  and 
nothing  be  seen  of  him  more,  except  a  heap  of  dust. 
Miss  Hepzibah,  at  any  rate,  will  lose  what  little  flex- 
ibility she  has.  They  both  exist  by  you." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  think  so,"  answered 
Phffibe,  gravely.  "  But  it  is  true  that  my  small  abil- 
ities were  precisely  what  they  needed  ;  and  I  have  a 
real  interest  in  their  welfare,  —  an  odd  kind  of  moth- 
erly sentiment,  —  which  I  wish  you  would  not  laugh 
at!  And  let  me  tell  you  frankly,  Mr.  Holgrave,  I 
am  sometimes  puzzled  to  know  whether  you  wish  them 
well  or  ill." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  daguerreotypist,  "I  do 
feel  an  interest  in  this  antiquated,  poverty-stricken  old 
maiden  lady,  and  this  degraded  and  shattered  gentle- 
man, —  this  abortive  lover  of  the  beautiful.  A  kindly 
interest,  too,  helpless  old  children  that  they  are !  But 
you  have  no  conception  what  a  different  kind  of  heart 
mine  is  from  your  own.  It  is  not  my  impulse,  as  re- 
gards these  two  individuals,  either  to  help  or  hinder ; 
but  to  look  on,  to  analyze,  to  explain  matters  to  my- 
self, and  to  comprehend  the  drama  which,  for  almost 
two  hundred  years,  has  been  dragging  its  slow  length 
over  the  ground  where  you  and  I  now  tread.  If  per- 
mitted to  witness  the  close,  I  doubt  not  to  derive  a 
moral  satisfaction  from  it,  go  matters  how  they  may. 
There  is  a  conviction  within  me  that  the  end  draws 


PHCEBE'S  GOOD-BY.  259 

nigh.  But,  though  Providence  sent  you  hither  to  help, 
and  sends  me  only  as  a  privileged  and  meet  spectator, 
I  pledge  myself  to  lend  these  unfortunate  beings  what- 
ever aid  I  can  !  " 

"I  wish  you  would  speak  more  plainly,"  cried 
Phosbe,  perplexed  and  displeased ;  "  and,  above  all, 
that  you  would  feel  more  like  a  Christian  and  a 
human  being!  How  is  it  possible  to  see  people  in 
distress,  without  desiring,  more  than  anything  else,  to 
help  and  comfort  them  ?  You  talk  as  if  this  old  house 
were  a  theatre ;  and  you  seem  to  look  at  Hepzibah's 
and  Clifford's  misfortunes,  and  those  of  generations 
before  them,  as  a  tragedy,  such  as  I  have  seen  acted 
in  the  hall  of  a  country  hotel,  only  the  present  one 
appears  to  be  played  exclusively  for  your  amusement, 
I  do  not  like  this.  The  play  costs  the  performers  too 
much,  and  the  audience  is  too  cold-hearted." 

"You  are  severe,"  said  Holgrave,  compelled  to 
recognize  a  degree  of  truth  in  this  piquant  sketch  of 
his  own  mood. 

"And  then,"  continued  Phoebe,  "what  can  you 
mean  by  your  conviction,  which  you  tell  me  of,  that 
the  end  is  drawing  near  ?  Do  you  know  of  any  new 
trouble  hanging  over  my  poor  relatives  ?  If  so,  tell 
me  at  once,  and  I  will  not  leave  them !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Phoebe !  "  said  the  daguerreotypist, 
holding  out  his  hand,  to  which  the  girl  was  constrained 
to  yield  her  own.  "  I  am  somewhat  of  a  mystic,  it 
must  be  confessed.  The  tendency  is  in  my  blood, 
together  with  the  faculty  of  mesmerism,  which  might 
have  brought  me  to  Gallows  Hill,  in  the  good  old 
times  of  witchcraft.  Believe  me,  if  I  were  really 
aware  of  any  secret,  the  disclosure  of  which  would 
benefit  your  friends, — who  are  my  own  friends,  like- 


260     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

wise,  —  you  should  learn  it  before  we  part.  But  I 
have  no  such  knowledge." 

"  You  hold  something  back ! "  said  Phrebe. 

"Nothing,  —  no  secrets  but  my  own,"  answered 
Holgrave.  "  I  can  perceive,  indeed,  that  Judge  Pyn« 
cheon  still  keeps  his  eye  on  Clifford,  in  whose  ruin 
he  had  so  large  a  share.  His  motives  and  intentions, 
however,  are  a  mystery  to  me.  He  is  a  determined 
and  relentless  man,  with  the  genuine  character  of  an 
inquisitor ;  and  had  he  any  object  to  gain  by  putting 
Clifford  to  the  rack,  I  verily  believe  that  he  would 
wrench  his  joints  from  their  sockets,  in  order  to  ac- 
complish it.  But,  so  wealthy  and  eminent  as  he  is,  — 
so  powerful  in  his  own  strength,  and  in  the  support  of 
society  on  all  sides,  —  what  can  Judge  Pyncheon  have 
to  hope  or  fear  from  the  imbecile,  branded,  half-torpid 
Clifford?" 

"  Yet,"  urged  Phoabe,  "  you  did  speak  as  if  misfor- 
tune were  impending !  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  because  I  am  morbid  !  "  replied  the 
artist.  "My  mind  has  a  twist  aside,  like  almost 
everybody's  mind,  except  your  own.  Moreover,  it  is 
so  strange  to  find  myself  an  inmate  of  this  old  Pyn- 
cheon House,  and  sitting  in  this  old  garden  —  (hark, 
how  Maule's  well  is  murmuring !)  —  that,  were  it 
only  for  this  one  circumstance,  I  cannot  help  fancy- 
ing that  Destiny  is  arranging  its  fifth  act  for  a  catas- 
trophe." 

"  There  ! "  cried  Phoabe  with  renewed  vexation ;  for 
she  was  by  nature  as  hostile  to  mystery  as  the  sun- 
shine to  a  dark  corner.  "  You  puzzle  me  more  than 
ever ! " 

"Then  let  us  part  friends! "  said  Holgrave,  pressing 
her  hand.  "  Or,  if  not  friends,  let  us  part  before  you 


PHCEBE'S  GOOD-BY.  261 

antirely  hate  me.    You,  who  love  everybody  else  in 
the  world ! " 

"  Good-by,  then,"  said  Phrebe,  frankly.  "  I  do  not 
mean  to  be  angry  a  great  while,  and  should  be  sorry 
to  have  you  think  so.  There  has  Cousin  Hepzibah 
been  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway,  this 
quarter  of  an  hour  past !  She  thinks  I  stay  too  long* 
in  the  damp  garden.  So,  good -night,  and  good»( 
by!" 

On  the  second  morning  thereafter,  Phoabe  might 
have  been  seen,  in  her  straw  bonnet,  with  a  shawl  on 
one  arm  and  a  little  carpet-bag  on  the  other,  bidding 
adieu  to  Hepzibah  and  Cousin  Clifford.  She  was  to 
take  a  seat  in  the  next  train  of  cars,  which  would 
transport  her  to  within  half  a  dozen  miles  of  her 
country  village. 

The  tears  were  in  Phoabe's  eyes ;  a  smile,  dewy  with 
affectionate  regret,  was  glimmering  around  her  pleas- 
ant mouth.  She  wondered  how  it  came  to  pass,  that 
her  life  of  a  few  weeks,  here  in  this  heavy-hearted  old 
mansion,  had  taken  such  hold  of  her,  and  so  melted 
into  her  associations,  as  now  to  seem  a  more  important 
centre-point  of  remembrance  than  all  which  had  gone 
before.  How  had  Hepzibah  —  grim,  silent,  and  irre- 
sponsive to  her  overflow  of  cordial  sentiment  —  con- 
trived to  win  so  much  love  ?  And  Clifford,  —  in  his 
abortive  decay,  with  the  mystery  of  fearful  crime  upon 
him,  and  the  close  prison-atmosphere  yet  lurking  in 
his  breath,  —  how  had  he  transformed  himself  into 
the  simplest  child,  whom  Phffibe  felt  bound  to  watch 
over,  and  be,  as  it  were,  the  providence  of  his  uncon* 
sidered  hours !  Everything,  at  that  instant  of  fare- 
well, stood  out  prominently  to  her  view.  Look  wherft 
she  would,  lay  her  hand  on  what  she  might,  the  ot> 


262      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ject  responded  to  her  consciousness,  as  if  a  moist  htfc 
man  heart  were  in  it. 

She  peeped  from  the  window  into  the  garden,  and 
felt  herself  more  regretful  at  leaving  this  spot  of  black 
earth,  vitiated  with  such  an  age-long  growth  of  weeds$ 
than  joyful  at  the  idea  of  again  scenting  her  pine 
forests  and  fresh  clover-fields.  She  called  Chanticleer, 
his  two  wives,  and  the  venerable  chicken,  and  threw 
them  some  crumbs  of  bread  from  the  breakfast-table. 
These  being  hastily  gobbled  up,  the  chicken  spread  its 
wings,  and  alighted  close  by  Phrebe  on  the  window- 
sill,  where  it  looked  gravely  into  her  face  and  vented 
its  emotions  in  a  croak.  Phrebe  bade  it  be  a  good  old 
chicken  during  her  absence,  and  promised  to  bring  it 
a  little  bag  of  buckwheat. 

"  Ah,  Phosbe  !  "  remarked  Hepzibah,  "  you  do  not 
smile  so  naturally  as  when  you  came  to  us !  Then,  the 
smile  chose  to  shine  out ;  now,  you  choose  it  should. 
It  is  well  that  you  are  going  back,  for  a  little  while, 
into  your  native  air.  There  has  been  too  much  weight 
'on  your  spirits.  The  house  is  too  gloomy  and  lone- 
some ;  the  shop  is  full  of  vexations  ;  and  as  for  me,  I 
have  no  faculty  of  making  things  look  brighter  than 
they  are.  Dear  Clifford  has  been  your  only  comfort!  " 

"  Come  hither,  Phoabe,"  suddenly  cried  her  cousin 
Clifford,  who  had  said  very  little  all  the  morning. 
**  Close !  —  closer !  —  and  look  me  in  the  face !  " 

Phoabe  put  one  of  her  small  hands  on  each  elbow  of 
his  chair,  and  leaned  her  face  towards  him,  so  that  he 
might  peruse  it  as  carefully  as  he  would.  It  is  prob- 
able that  the  latent  emotions  of  this  parting  hour  had 
revived,  in  some  degree,  his  bedinimed  and  enfeebled 
faculties.  At  any  rate,  Pho3be  soon  felt  that,  if  not 
the  profound  insight  of  a  seer,  yet  a  more  than  fern- 


PHCEBE'S   GOOD-BY.  263 

ininc  delicacy  of  appreciation,  was  making  her  heart 
the  subject  of  its  regard.  A  moment  before,  she  had 
known  nothing  which  she  would  have  sought  to  hide, 
Now,  as  if  some  secret  were  hinted  to  her  own  con« 
sciousness  through  the  medium  of  another's  perception, 
she  was  fain  to  let  her  eyelids  droop  beneath  Clifford's 
gaze.  A  blush,  too,  —  the  redder,  because  she  strove 
hard  to  keep  it  down,  —  ascended  higher  and  higher, 
in  a  tide  of  fitful  progress,  until  even  her  brow  was  all 
suffused  with  it. 

"  It  is  enough,  Phoebe,"  said  Clifford,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile.  "  When  I  first  saw  you,  you  were  the 
prettiest  little  maiden  in  the  world ;  and  now  you  have 
deepened  into  beauty  !  Girlhood  has  passed  into 
womanhood ;  the  bud  is  a  bloom !  Go,  now  !  —  I  feel 
lonelier  than  I  did." 

Phoebe  took  leave  of  the  desolate  couple,  and  passed 
through  the  shop,  twinkling  her  eyelids  to  shake  off  a 
dew-drop  ;  for  —  considering  how  brief  her  absence 
was  to  be,  and  therefore  the  folly  of  being  cast  down 
about  it  —  she  would  not  so  far  acknowledge  her  tears 
as  to  dry  them  with  her  handkerchief.  On  the  door- 
step, she  met  the  little  urchin  whose  marvellous  feats 
of  gastronomy  have  been  recorded  in  the  earlier  pages 
of  our  narrative.  She  took  from  the  window  some 
specimen  or  other  of  natural  history,  —  her  eyes  be- 
ing too  dim  with  moisture  to  inform  her  accurately 
whether  it  was  a  rabbit  or  a  hippopotamus,  —  put  it 
into  the  child's  hand,  as  a  parting  gift,  and  went  her 
way.  Old  Uncle  Venner  was  just  coming  out  of  his 
door,  with  a  wood-horse  and  saw  on  his  shoulder ;  and, 
trudging  along  the  street,  he  scrupled  not  to  keep 
company  with  Phoebe,  so  far  as  their*  paths  lay  to- 
gether; nor,  in  spite  of  his  patched  coat  and  rusty 


264      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

beaver,  and  the  curious  fashion  of  his  tow-cloth  trous- 
ers, could  she  find  it  in  her  heart  to  outwalk  him. 

*4  We  shall  miss  you,  next  Sabbath  afternoon,"  ob» 
served  the  street  philosopher.  "  It  is  unaccountable 
how  little  while  it  takes  some  folks  to  grow  just  as 
natural  to  a  man  as  his  own  breath ;  and,  begging 
your  pardon,  Miss  Phoebe  (though  there  can  be  no 
offence  in  an  old  man's  saying  it),  that 's  just  what 
you  've  grown  to  me !  My  years  have  been  a  great 
many,  and  your  life  is  but  just  beginning ;  and  yet, 
you  are  somehow  as  familiar  to  me  as  if  I  had  found 
you  at  my  mother's  door,  and  you  had  blossomed,  like 
a  running  vine,  all  along  my  pathway  since.  Come 
back  soon,  or  I  shall  be  gone  to  my  farm  ;  for  I  begin 
to  find  these  wood-sawing  jobs  a  little  too  tough  for 
my  back-ache." 

**  Very  soon,  Uncle  Venner,"  replied  Phoebe. 

"  And  let  it  be  all  the  sooner,  Phosbe,  for  the  sake 
of  those  poor  souls  yonder,"  continued  her  compan- 
ion. "They  can  never  do  without  you,  now, — never, 
Phffibe,  never  !  —  no  more  than  if  one  of  God's  angels 
had  been  living  with  them,  and  making  their  dismal 
house  pleasant  and  comfortable!  Don't  it  seem  to 
you  they  'd  be  in  a  sad  case,  if,  some  pleasant  summer 
morning  like  this,  the  angel  should  spread  his  wings, 
and  fly  to  the  place  he  came  from?  Well,  just  so  they 
feel,  now  that  you're  going  home  by  the  railroad! 
They  can't  bear  it,  Miss  Phoebe ;  so  be  sure  to  come 
back ! " 

"  I  am  no  angel,  Uncle  Venner,"  said  Phosbe,  smil> 
ing,  as  she  offered  him  her  hand  at  the  street-corner. 
"  But,  I  suppose,  people  never  feel  so  much  like  an- 
gels as  when  they  are  doing  what  little  good  they  may 
80  I  shall  certainly  come  back  I  " 


PHCEBE'S  GOOD-BY.  265 

Thus  parted  the  old  man  and  the  rosy  girl ;  and 
Phoebe  took  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  was  soon 
flitting  almost  as  rapidly  away  as  if  endowed  with  the 
aerial  locomotion  of  the  angels  to  whom  Uncle  Venner 
had  so  graciously  compared 


XV. 

THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE. 

SEVEKAL  days  passed  over  the  Seven  Gables,  heav- 
ily and  drearily  enough.  In  fact  (not  to  attribute  the 
whole  gloom  of  sky  and  earth  to  the  one  inauspicious 
circumstance  of  Phoebe's  departure),  an  easterly  storm 
had  set  in,  and  indefatigably  applied  itself  to  the  task 
of  making  the  black  roof  and  walls  of  the  old  house 
look  more  cheerless  than  ever  before.  Yet  was  the 
outside  not  half  so  cheerless  as  the  interior.  Poor 
Clifford  was  cut  off,  at  once,  from  all  his  scanty  re- 
sources of  enjoyment.  Phosbe  was  not  there  ;  nor  did 
the  sunshine  fall  upon  the  floor.  The  garden,  with  its 
muddy  walks,  and  the  chill,  dripping  foliage  of  its 
summer-house,  was  an  image  to  be  shuddered  at. 
Nothing  flourished  in  the  cold,  moist,  pitiless  atmos- 
phere, drifting  with  the  brackish  scud  of  sea-breezes, 
except  the  moss  along  the  joints  of  the  shingle-roof, 
and  the  great  bunch  of  weeds,  that  had  lately  been 
suffering  from  drought,  in  the  angle  between  the  two 
front  gables. 

As  for  Hepzibah,  she  seemed  not  merely  possessed 
with  the  east  wind,  but  to  be,  in  her  very  person,  only 
another  phase  of  this  gray  and  sullen  spell  of  weather; 
the  east  wind  itself,  grim  and  disconsolate,  in  a  rusty 
black  silk  gown,  and  with  a  turban  of  cloud-wreaths 
on  its  head.  The  custom  of  the  shop  fell  off,  because 
a  story  got  abroad  that  she  soured  her  small  beer  and 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE  267 

other  damageable  commodities,  by  scowling  on  them. 
It  is,  perhaps,  true  that  the  public  had  something 
reasonably  to  complain  of  in  her  deportment ;  but  to- 
wards Clifford  she  was  neither  ill-tempered  nor  un- 
kind, nor  felt  less  warmth  of  heart  than  always,  had  it 
been  possible  to  make  it  reach  him.  The  inutility  of 
her  best  efforts,  however,  palsied  the  poor  old  gentle- 
woman. She  could  do  little  else  than  sit  silently  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  when  the  wet  pear-tree  branches, 
sweeping  across  the  small  windows,  created  a  noon-day 
dusk,  which  Hepzibah  unconsciously  darkened  with 
her  woe-begone  aspect.  It  was  no  fault  of  Hepzibah's. 
Everything  —  even  the  old  chairs  and  tables,  that  had 
known  what  weather  was  for  three  or  four  such  life- 
times as  her  own  —  looked  as  damp  and  chill  as  if  the 
present  were  their  worst  experience.  The  picture  of 
the  Puritan  Colonel  shivered  on  the  wall.  The  house 
itself  shivered,  from  every  attic  of  its  seven  gables, 
down  to  the  great  kitchen  fireplace,  which  served  all 
the  better  as  an  emblem  of  the  mansion's  heart,  be- 
cause, though  hwilt  for  warmth,  it  was  now  so  com- 
fortless and  empty. 

Hepzibah  attempted  to  enliven  matters  by  a  fire  in 
the  parlor.  But  the  storm-demon  kept  watch  above, 
and,  whenever  a  flame  was  kindled,  drove  the  smoke 
back  again,  choking  the  chimney's  sooty  throat  with 
its  own  breath.  Nevertheless,  during  four  days  of 
this  miserable  storm,  Clifford  wrapt  himself  in  an  old 
cloak,  and  occupied  his  customary  chair.  On  the 
morning  of  the  fifth,  when  summoned  to  breakfast,  he 
responded  only  by  a  broken-hearted  murmur,  expres- 
sive of  a  determination  not  to  leave  his  bed.  His  sis- 
ter made  no  attempt  to  change  his  purpose.  In  fact, 
entirely  as  she  loved  him,  Hepzibah  could  hardly  have 


268     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

borne  any  longer  the  wretched  duty  —  so  impractica* 
ble  by  her  few  and  rigid  faculties  —  of  seeking  pas* 
time  for  a  still  sensitive,  but  ruined  mind,  critical  and 
fastidious,  without  force  or  volition.  It  was,  at  least, 
something  short  of  positive  despair,  that,  to-day,  she 
might  sit  shivering  alone,  and  not  suffer  continually  a 
new  grief,  and  unreasonable  pang  of  remorse,  at  every 
fitful  sigh  of  her  fellow-sufferer. 

But  Clifford,  it  seemed,  though  he  did  not  make  his 
appearance  below  stairs,  had,  after  all,  bestirred  him- 
self in  quest  of  amusement.  In  the  course  of  the  fore- 
noon, Hepzibah  heard  a  note  of  music,  which  (there 
being  no  other  tuneful  contrivance  in  the  House  of 
the  Seven  Gables)  she  knew  must  proceed  from  Alice 
Pyncheon's  harpsichord.  She  was  aware  that  Clif- 
ford, in  his  youth,  had  possessed  a  cultivated  taste  for 
music,  and  a  considerable  degree  of  skill  in  its  prac- 
tice. It  was  difficult,  however,  to  conceive  of  his  re- 
taining an  accomplishment  to  which  daily  exercise  is 
so  essential,  in  the  measure  indicated  by  the  sweet, 
airy,  and  delicate,  though  most  melancholy  strain, 
that  now  stole  upon  her  ear.  Nor  was  it  less  marvel- 
lous that  the  long-silent  instrument  should  be  capable 
of  so  much  melody.  Hepzibah  involuntarily  thought 
of  the  ghostly  harmonies,  prelusive  of  death  in  the 
family,  which  were  attributed  to  the  legendary  Alice. 
But  it  was,  perhaps,  proof  of  the  agency  of  other  than 
spiritual  fingers,  that,  after  a  few  touches,  the  chords 
seemed  to  snap  asunder  with  their  own  vibrations,  and 
the  music  ceased. 

But  a  harsher  sound  succeeded  to  the  mysterious 
notes  ;  nor  was  the  easterly  day  fated  to  pass  without 
an  event  sufficient  in  itself  to  poison,  for  Hepzibah 
and  Clifford,  the  balmiest  air  that  ever  brought  the 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  269 

humming-birds  along  with  it.  The  final  echoes  of 
Alice  Pyncheon's  performance  (or  Clifford's,  if  his 
we  must  consider  it)  were  driven  away  by  no  less  vul- 
gar a  dissonance  than  the  ringing  of  the  shop-bell.  A 
foot  was  heard  scraping  itself  on  the  threshold,  and 
thence  somewhat  ponderously  stepping  on  the  floor. 
Hepzibah  delayed  a  moment,  while  muffling  herself  in. 
a  faded  shawl,  which  had  been  her  defensive  armor  in 
a  forty  years'  warfare  against  the  east  wind.  A  char- 
acteristic  sound,  however,  —  neither  a  cough  nor  a 
hem,  but  a  kind  of  rumbling  and  reverberating  spasm 
in  somebody's  capacious  depth  of  chest,  —  impelled 
her  to  hurry  forward,  with  that  aspect  of  fierce  faint- 
heartedness so  common  to  women  in  cases  of  perilous 
emergency.  Few  of  her  sex,  on  such  occasions,  have 
ever  looked  so  terrible  as  our  poor  scowling  Hepzibah. 
But  the  visitor  quietly  closed  the  shop-door  behind 
him,  stood  up  his  umbrella  against  the  counter,  and 
turned  a  visage  of  composed  benignity,  to  meet  the 
alarm  and  anger  which  his  appearance  had  excited. 

Hepzibah's  presentiment  had  not  deceived  her.  It 
was  no  other  than  Judge  Pyncheon,  who,  after  in  vain 
trying  the  front  door,  had  now  effected  his  entrance 
into  the  shop. 

"How  do  you  do,  Cousin  Hepzibah?  —  and  how 
does  this  most  inclement  weather  affect  our  poor  Clif- 
ford ?  "  began  the  Judge ;  and  wonderful  it  seemed, 
indeed,  that  the  easterly  storm  was  not  put  to  shame, 
or,  at  any  rate,  a  little  mollified,  by  the  genial  benev- 
olence of  his  smile.  "  I  could  not  rest  without  calling 
to  ask,  once  more,  whether  I  can  in  any  manner  pro- 
mote his  comfort,  or  your  own." 

"You  can  do  nothing,"  said  Hepzibah,  controlling 
her  agitation  as  well  as  she  could.  "  I  devote  myself 


270   THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

to  Clifford.     He  has  every  comfort  which  his  situation 
admits  of." 

"But  allow  me  to  suggest,  dear  cousin,"  rejoined 
the  Judge,  "  you  err,  —  in  all  affection  and  kindness, 
no  doubt,  and  with  the  very  best  intentions,  —  but  you 
do  err,  nevertheless,  in  keeping  your  brother  so  se- 
cluded. Why  insulate  him  thus  from  all  sympathy 
and  kindness?  Clifford,  alas!  has  had  too  much  of 
solitude.  Now  let  him  try  society,  —  the  society,  that 
is  to  say,  of  kindred  and  old  friends.  Let  me,  for  in- 
stance, but  see  Clifford,  and  I  will  answer  for  the  good 
effect  of  the  interview." 

"  You  cannot  see  him,"  answered  Hepzibah.  "  Clif- 
ford has  kept  his  bed  since  yesterday." 

"  What !  How !  Is  he  ill  ?"  exclaimed  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon,  starting  with  what  seemed  to  be  angry  alarm ; 
for  the  very  frown  of  the  old  Puritan  darkened  through 
the  room  as  he  spoke.  "  Nay,  then,  I  must  and  will 
see  him  !  What  if  he  should  die  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  no  danger  of  death,"  said  Hepzibah,  — 
and  added,  with  bitterness  that  she  could  repress 
no  longer,  "  none ;  unless  he  shall  be  persecuted  to 
death,  now,  by  the  same  man  who  long  ago  attempted 
it!" 

"  Cousin  Hepzibah,"  said  the  Judge,  with  an  im- 
pressive earnestness  of  manner,  which  grew  even  to 
tearful  pathos  as  he  proceeded,  "  is  it  possible  that  you 
do  not  perceive  how  unjust,  how  unkind,  how  unchris- 
tian, is  this  constant,  this  long  -  continued  bitterness 
against  me,  for  a  part  which  I  was  constrained  by  duty 
and  conscience,  by  the  force  of  law,  and  at  my  own 
peril,  to  act  ?  What  did  I  do,  in  detriment  to  Clifford, 
which  it  was  possible  to  leave  undone  ?  How  could 
you,  his  sister,  —  if,  for  your  never-ending  sorrow,  as 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE,  271 

it  has  been  for  mine,  you  had  known  what  I  did,  — 
have  shown  greater  tenderness  ?  And  do  you  think, 
cousin,  that  it  has  cost  me  no  pang  ?  —  that  it  has  left 
no  anguish  in  my  bosom,  from  that  day  to  this,  amidst 
all  the  prosperity  with  which  Heaven  has  blessed  me? 
— -  or  that  I  do  not  now  rejoice,  when  it  is  deemed  con- 
listent  with  the  dues  of  public  justice  and  the  welfare 
of  society  that  this  dear  kinsman,  this  early  friend, 
this  nature  so  delicately  and  beautifully  constituted,  — 
so  unfortunate,  let  us  pronounce  him,  and  forbear  to 
say,  so  guilty,  —  that  our  own  Clifford,  in  fine,  should 
be  given  back  to  life,  and  its  possibilities  of  enjoyment? 
Ah,  you  little  know  me,  Cousin  Hepzibah  !  You  little 
know  this  heart !  It  now  throbs  at  the  thought  of 
meeting  him  !  There  lives  not  the  human  being  (ex- 
cept yourself,  —  and  you  not  more  than  I)  who  has 
shed  so  many  tears  for  Clifford's  calamity  !  You  be- 
hold some  of  them  now.  There  is  none  who  would  so 
delight  to  promote  his  happiness !  Try  me,  Hepzi- 
bah !  —  try  me,  cousin  !  —  try  the  man  whom  you  have 
treated  as  your  enemy  and  Clifford's !  —  try  Jaffrey 
Pyncheon,  and  you  shall  find  him  true,  to  the  heart's 
core !  " 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,"  cried  Hepzibah,  provoked 
only  to  intenser  indignation  by  this  outgush  of  the  in- 
estimable tenderness  of  a  stern  nature,  —  "  in  God's 
name,  whom  you  insult,  and  whose  power  I  could  al- 
most question,  since  he  hears  you  utter  so  many  false 
words  without  palsying  your  tongue,  —  give  over,  I 
beseech  you,  this  loathsome  pretence  of  affection  for 
yimr  victim  !  You  hate  him !  Say  so,  like  a  man  I 
You  cherish,  at  this  moment,  some  black  purpose 
against  him  in  your  heart !  Speak  it  out,  at  once  1  — 
or,  if  you  hope  so  to  promote  it  better,  hide  it  till  you 


272      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

can  triumph  in  its  success !  But  never  speak  again  of 
your  love  for  my  poor  brother  !  I  cannot  bear  it ! 
It  will  drive  me  beyond  a  woman's  decency !  It  will 
drive  me  mad !  Forbear !  Not  another  word !  It 
will  make  me  spurn  you  !  " 

For  once,  Hepzibah's  wrath  had  given  her  courage. 
She  had  spoken.  But,  after  all,  was  this  unconquer- 
able distrust  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  integrity,  and  this 
utter  denial,  apparently,  of  his  claim  to  stand  in  the 
ring  of  human  sympathies,  —  were  they  founded  in 
any  just  perception  of  his  character,  or  merely  the  off- 
spring of  a  woman's  unreasonable  prejudice,  deduced 
from  nothing  ? 

The  Judge,  beyond  all  question,  was  a  man  of  emi- 
nent respectability.  The  church  acknowledged  it ; 
the  state  acknowledged  it.  It  was  denied  by  nobody. 
In  all  the  very  extensive  sphere  of  those  who  knew 
him,  whether  in  his  public  or  private  capacities,  there 
was  not  an  individual  —  except  Hepzibah,  and  some 
lawless  mystic,  like  the  daguerreotypist,  and,  possibly, 
a  few  political  opponents  —  who  would  have  dreamed 
of  seriously  disputing  his  claim  to  a  high  and  honor- 
able place  in  the  world's  regard.  Nor  (we  must  do 
him  the  further  justice  to  say)  did  Judge  Pyncheon 
himself,  probably,  entertain  many  or  very  frequent 
doubts,  that  his  enviable  reputation  accorded  with  his 
deserts.  His  conscience,  therefore,  usually  considered 
the  surest  witness  to  a  man's  integrity,  —  his  con- 
science, unless  it  might  be  for  the  little  space  of  five 
minutes  in  the  twenty-four  hours,  or,  now  and  then, 
some  black  day  in  the  whole  year's  circle,  —  his  con- 
science bore  an  accordant  testimony  with  the  world's 
laudatory  voice.  And  yet,  strong  as  this  evidence  may 
Seem  to  be,  we  should  hesitate  to  peril  our  own  con- 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  273 

science  on  the  assertion,  that  the  Judge  and  the  con- 
senting world  were  right,  and  that  poor  Hepzibah^ 
with  her  solitary  prejudice  was  wrong.  Hidden  from 
mankind,  —  forgotten  by  himself,  or  buried  so  deeply 
under  a  sculptured  and  ornamented  pile  of  ostenta- 
tious deeds  that  his  daily  life  could  take  no  note  of  it, 
—  there  may  have  lurked  some  evil  and  unsightly 
thing.  Nay,  we  could  almost  venture  to  say,  further, 
that  a  daily  guilt  might  have  been  acted  by  him,  con- 
tinually renewed,  and  reddening  forth  afresh,  like 
the  miraculous  blood-stain  of  a  murder,  without  his 
necessarily  and  at  every  moment  being  aware  of  it. 

Men  of  strong  minds,  great  force  of  character,  and 
a  hard  texture  of  the  sensibilities,  are  very  capable  of 
falling  into  mistakes  of  this  kind.  They  are  ordinarily 
men  to  whom  forms  are  of  paramount  importance. 
Their  field  of  action  lies  among  the  external  phenom- 
ena of  life.  They  possess  vast  ability  in  grasping, 
and  arranging,  and  appropriating  to  themselves,  the 
big,  heavy,  solid  unrealities,  such  as  gold,  landed  es- 
tate, offices  of  trust  and  emolument,  and  public  honors. 
With  these  materials,  and  with  deeds  of  goodly  as- 
pect, done  in  the  public  eye,  an  individual  of  this 
class  builds  up,  as  it  were,  a  tall  and  stately  edifice, 
which,  in  the  view  of  other  people,  and  ultimately  in 
his  own  view,  is  no  other  than  the  man's  character,  or 
the  man  himself.  Behold,  therefore,  a  palace !  Its 
splendid  halls,  and  suites  of  spacious  apartments,  are 
floored  with  a  mosaic-work  of  costly  marbles ;  its 
windows,  the  whole  height  of  each  room,  admit  the 
sunshine  through  the  most  transparent  of  plate-glass ; 
its  high  cornices  are  gilded,  and  its  ceilings  gorgeously 
painted  ;  and  a  lofty  dome  —  through  which,  from  the 
central  pavement,  you  may  gaze  up  to  the  sky,  as  with 

VOL.  III.  18 


274      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

no  obstructing  medium  between  —  surmounts  the 
whole.  With  what  fairer  and  nobler  emblem  could 
any  man  desire  to  shadow  forth  his  character  ?  Ah  I 
but  in  some  low  and  obscure  nook,  —  some  narrow 
closet  on  the  ground-floor,  shut,  locked  and  bolted, 
and  the  key  flung  away,  —  or  beneath  the  marble 
pavement,  in  a  stagnant  water-puddle,  with  the  richest 
pattern  of  mosaic-work  above,  —  may  lie  a  corpse, 
half  decayed,  and  still  decaying,  and  diffusing  its 
death-scent  all  through  the  palace!  The  inhabitant 
will  not  be  conscious  of  it,  for  it  has  long  been  his 
daily  breath  1  Neither  will  the  visitors,  for  they  smell 
only  the  rich  odors  which  the  master  sedulously  scat- 
ters through  the  palace,  and  the  incense  which  they 
bring,  and  delight  to  burn  before  him  !  Now  and  then, 
perchance,  comes  in  a  seer,  before  whose  sadly  gifted 
eye  the  whole  structure  melts  into  thin  air,  leaving 
only  the  hidden  nook,  the  bolted  closet,  with  the  cob- 
webs festooned  over  its  forgotten  door,  or  the  deadly 
hole  under  the  pavement,  and  the  decaying  corpse 
within.  Here,  then,  we  are  to  seek  the  true  emblem 
of  the  man's  character,  and  of  the  deed  that  gives 
whatever  reality  it  possesses  to  his  life.  And,  beneath 
the  show  of  a  marble  palace,  that  pool  of  stagnant 
water,  foul  with  many  impurities,  and,  perhaps,  tinged 
with  blood,  —  that  secret  abomination,  above  which, 
possibly,  he  may  say  his  prayers,  without  remember- 
ing it,  —  is  this  man's  miserable  soul  ! 

To  apply  this  train  of  remark  somewhat  more  closely 
to  Judge  Pyncheon.  We  might  say  (without  in  the 
least  imputing  crime  to  a  personage  of  his  eminent 
/espectability)  that  there  was  enough  of  splendid  rub- 
bish in  his  life  to  cover  up  and  paralyze  a  more  active 
imd  subtile  conscience  than  the  Judge  was  ever  troubled 


THE   SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  275' 

with.  The  purity  of  his  judicial  character,  while  on 
the  bench ;  the  faithfulness  of  his  public  service  in 
subsequent  capacities  ;  his  devotedness  to  his  party, 
and  the  rigid  consistency  with  which  he  had  adhered 
to  its  principles,  or,  at  all  events,  kept  pace  with  its 
organized  movements ;  his  remarkable  zeal  as  pres- 
ident of  a  Bible  society  ;  his  unimpeachable  integrity 
as  treasurer  of  a  widow's  and  orphan's  fund;  his 
benefits  to  horticulture,  by  producing  two  much -es- 
teemed varieties  of  the  pear,  and  to  agriculture,  through 
the  agency  of  the  famous  Pyncheon  bull ;  the  cleanli- 
ness of  his  moral  deportment,  for  a  great  many  years 
past ;  the  severity  with  which  he  had  frowned  upon, 
and  finally  cast  off,  an  expensive  and  dissipated  son, 
delaying  forgiveness  until  within  the  final  quarter 
of  an  hour  of  the  young  man's  life ;  his  prayers  at 
morning  and  eventide,  and  graces  at  meal-time  ;  his 
efforts  in  furtherance  of  the  temperance  cause  ;  his 
confining  himself,  since  the  last  attack  of  the  gout,  to 
five  diurnal  glasses  of  old  sherry  wine ;  the  snowy 
whiteness  of  his  linen,  the  polish  of  his  boots,  the  hand- 
someness of  his  gold-headed  cane,  the  square  and  roomy 
fashion  of  his  coat,  and  the  fineness  of  its  material, 
and,  in  general,  the  studied  propriety  of  his  dress  and 
equipment ;  the  scrupulousness  with  which  he  paid 
public  notice,  in  the  street,  by  a  bow,  a  lifting  of  the 
hat,  a  nod,  or  a  motion  of  the  hand,  to  all  and  sundry 
of  his  acquaintances,  rich  or  poor ;  the  smile  of  broad 
benevolence  wherewith  he  made  it  a  point  to  gladden 
the  whole  world,  —  what  room  could  possibly  be  found 
for  darker  traits  in  a  portrait  made  up  of  lineaments 
like  these  ?  This  proper  face  was  what  he  beheld  in 
the  looking-glass.  This  admirably  arranged  life  was 
what  he  was  conscious  of  in  the  progress  of  every  day. 


276       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Then,  might  not  he  claim  to  be  its  result  and  sum,  and 
say  to  himself  and  the  community,  "  Behold  Judge 
Pyncheon  there  "  ? 

And  allowing  that,  many,  many  years  ago,  in  his 
early  and  reckless  youth,  he  had  committed  some  one 
wrong  act,  —  or  that,  even  now,  the  inevitable  force 
of  circumstances  should  occasionally  make  him  do  one 
questionable  deed  among  a  thousand  praiseworthy,  or, 
at  least,  blameless  ones,  —  would  you  characterize  the 
Judge  by  that  one  necessary  deed,  and  that  half-for- 
gotten act,  and  let  it  overshadow  the  fair  aspect  of  a 
lifetime  ?  What  is  there  so  ponderous  in  evil,  that  a 
thumb's  bigness  of  it  should  outweigh  the  mass  of 
things  not  evil  which  were  heaped  into  the  other  scale ! 
This  scale  and  balance  system  is  a  favorite  one  with 
people  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  brotherhood.  A  hard, 
cold  man,  thus  unfortunately  situated,  seldom  or  never 
looking  inward,  and  resolutely  taking  his  idea  of 
himself  from  what  purports  to  be  his  image  as  re- 
flected in  the  mirror  of  public  opinion,  can  scarcely 
arrive  at  true  self-knowledge,  except  through  loss  of 
property  and  reputation.  Sickness  will  not  always 
help  him  do  it ;  not  always  the  death-hour ! 

But  our  affair  now  is  with  Judge  Pyncheon  as  he 
stood  confronting  the  fierce  outbreak  of  Hepzibah's 
wrath.  Without  premeditation,  to  her  own  surprise, 
and  indeed  terror,  she  had  given  vent,  for  once,  to 
the  inveteracy  of  her  resentment,  cherished  against 
this  kinsman  for  thirty  years. 

Thus  far  the  Judge's  countenance  had  expressed 
mild  forbearance,  —  grave  and  almost  gentle  depreca- 
tion of  his  cousin's  unbecoming  violence,  —  free  and 
Christian-like  forgiveness  of  the  wrong  inflicted  by 
her  words.  But  when  those  words  were  irrevocably 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  277 

Spoken  his  look  assumed  sternness,  the  sense  of  power, 
and  immitigable  resolve  ;  and  this  with  so  natural  and 
imperceptible  a  change,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  iron 
man  had  stood  there  from  the  first,  and  the  meek  man 
not  at  all.  The  effect  was  as  when  the  light,  vapory 
clouds,  with  their  soft  coloring,  suddenly  vanish  from 
the  stony  brow  of  a  precipitous  mountain,  and  leave 
there  the  frown  which  you  at  once  feel  to  be  eternal. 
Hepzibah  almost  adopted  the  insane  belief  that  it  was 
her  old  Puritan  ancestor,  and  not  the  modern  Judge, 
on  whom  she  had  just  been  wreaking  the  bitterness  of 
her  heart.  Never  did  a  man  show  stronger  proof  of 
the  lineage  attributed  to  him  than  Judge  Pyncheon,  at 
this  crisis,  by  his  unmistakable  resemblance  to  the  pic- 
ture in  the  inner  room. 

"  Cousin  Hepzibah,"  said  he,  very  calmly,  "  it  is  time 
to  have  done  with  this." 

"  With  all  my  heart ! "  answered  she.  "  Then,  why 
do  you  persecute  us  any  longer  ?  Leave  poor  Clifford 
and  me  in  peace.  Neither  of  us  desires  anything 
better !  " 

"  It  is  my  purpose  to  see  Clifford  before  I  leave  this 
house,"  continued  the  Judge.  "  Do  not  act  like  a  mad- 
woman, Hepzibah !  I  am  his  only  friend,  and  an  all- 
powerful  one.  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  —  are 
you  so  blind  as  not  to  have  seen,  —  that,  without  not 
merely  my  consent,  but  my  efforts,  my  representations, 
the  exertion  of  my  whole  influence,  political,  official, 
personal,  Clifford  would  never  have  been  what  you 
call  free  ?  Did  you  think  his  release  a  triumph  over 
me  ?  Not  so,  my  good  cousin  ;  not  so,  by  any  means ! 
The  furthest  possible  from  that !  No  ;  but  it  was  the 
accomplishment  of  a  purpose  long  entertained  on  my 
part.  I  set  him  free  !  " 


f78      THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

**  You  !  "  answered  Hepzibah.  "  I  never  will  be- 
lieve  it !  He  owed  his  dungeon  to  you  ;  his  freedom 
to  God's  providence !  " 

"  I  set  him  free !  "  reaffirmed  Judge  Pyncheon,  with 
the  calmest  composure.  "  And  I  came  hither  now  to 
decide  whether  he  shall  retain  his  freedom.  It  will 
depend  upon  himself.  For  this  purpose,  I  must  see 
him." 

"  Never !  —  it  would  drive  him  mad !  "  exclaimed 
Hepzibah,  but  with  an  irresoluteness  sufficiently  per- 
ceptible to  the  keen  eye  of  the  Judge ;  for,  without 
the  slightest  faith  in  his  good  intentions,  she  knew  not 
whether  there  was  most  to  dread  in  yielding  or  re- 
sistance. "  And  why  should  you  wish  to  see  this 
wretched,  broken  man,  who  retains  hardly  a  fraction 
of  his  intellect,  and  will  hide  even  that  from  an  eye 
which  has  no  love  in  it  ?  " 

"  He  shall  see  love  enough  in  mine,  if  that  be  all !  *' 
said  the  Judge,  with  well-grounded  confidence  in  the 
benignity  of  his  aspect.  "  But,  Cousin  Hepzibah,  you 
confess  a  great  deal,  and  very  much  to  the  purpose. 
Now,  listen,  and  I  will  frankly  explain  my  reasons  for 
insisting  on  this  interview.  At  the  death,  thirty  years 
since,  of  our  uncle  Jeffrey,  it  was  found,  —  I  know 
not  whether  the  circumstance  ever  attracted  much  of 
your  attention,  among  the  sadder  interests  that  clus- 
tered round  that  event,  —  but  it  was  found  that  his 
visible  estate,  of  every  kind,  fell  far  short  of  any  es- 
timate ever  made  of  it.  He  was  supposed  to  be  im- 
mensely rich.  Nobody  doubted  that  he  stood  among 
the  weightiest  men  of  his  day.  It  was  one  of  his  eccen- 
tricities, however,  —  and  not  altogether  a  folly,  neither, 
—to  conceal  the  amount  of  his  property  by  making 
distant  and  foreign  investments,  perhaps  under  other 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  279 

names  than  his  own,  and  by  various  means,  familiar 
enough  to  capitalists,  but  unnecessary  here  to  be  speci- 
fied. By  Uncle  Jaffrey's  last  will  and  testament,  as 
you  are  aware,  his  entire  property  was  bequeathed  to 
me,  with  the  single  exception  of  a  life  interest  to  your- 
self in  this  old  family  mansion,  and  the  strip  of  patri 
monial  estate  remaining  attached  to  it." 

"  And  do  you  seek  to  deprive  us  of  that  ? "  asked 
Hepzibah,  unable  to  restrain  her  bitter  contempt.  "  Is 
this  your  price  for  ceasing  to  persecute  poor  Clif- 
ford?" 

"  Certainly  not,  my  dear  cousin ! "  answered  the 
Judge,  smiling  benevolently.  "  On  the  contrary,  as 
you  must  do  me  the  justice  to  own,  I  have  constantly 
expressed  my  readiness  to  double  or  treble  your  re- 
sources, whenever  you  should  make  up  your  mind  to 
accept  any  kindness  of  that  nature  at  the  hands  of 
your  kinsman.  No,  no !  But  here  lies  the  gist  of  the 
matter.  Of  my  uncle's  unquestionably  great  estate,  as 
I  have  said,  not  the  half  —  no,  not  one  third,  as  I  am 
fully  convinced  —  was  apparent  after  his  death.  Now, 
I  have  the  best  possible  reasons  for  believing  that  your 
brother  Clifford  can  give  me  a  clew  to  the  recovery  of 
the  remainder." 

"  Clifford  !  —  Clifford  know  of  any  hidden  wealth  ? 
—  Clifford  have  it  in  his  power  to  make  you  rich  ?  " 
cried  the  old  gentlewoman,  affected  with  a  sense  of 
something  like  ridicule,  at  the  idea.  "  Impossible! 
You  deceive  yourself !  It  is  really  a  thing  to  laugh 
at!" 

"  It  is  as  certain  as  that  I  stand  here !  "  said  Judge 
Pyncheon,  striking  his  gold-headed  cane  on  the  floor, 
and  at  the  same  time  stamping  his  foot,  as  if  to  ex- 
press his  conviction  the  more  forcibly  by  the  whole 


280     THE   HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

emphasis  of  his  substantial  person.  "  Clifford  tol<$ 
me  so  himself !  " 

"  No,  no  !  "  exclaimed  Hepzibah,  incredulously. 
u  You  are  dreaming,  Cousin  Jaffrey !  " 

44 1  do  not  belong  to  the  dreaming  class  of  men," 
said  the  Judge,  quietly.  "  Some  months  before  nvy 
uncle's  death,  Clifford  boasted  to  me  of  the  possession 
of  the  secret  of  incalculable  wealth.  His  purpose  was 
to  taunt  me,  and  excite  my  curiosity.  I  know  it  welL 
But,  from  a  pretty  distinct  recollection  of  the  particu- 
lars of  our  conversation,  I  am  thoroughly  convinced 
that  there  was  truth  in  what  he  said.  Clifford,  at  this 
moment,  if  he  chooses,  —  and  choose  he  must !  —  can 
inform  me  where  to  find  the  schedule,  the  documents, 
the  evidences,  in  whatever  shape  they  exist,  of  the  vast 
amount  of  Uncle  Jaffrey's  missing  property.  He  has 
the  secret.  His  boast  was  no  idle  word.  It  had  a  di- 
rectness, an  emphasis,  a  particularity,  that  showed  a 
backbone  of  solid  meaning  within  the  mystery  of  his 
expression." 

44  But  what  could  have  been  Clifford's  object,"  asked 
Hepzibah,  "  in  concealing  it  so  long  ?  " 

44  It  was  one  of  the  bad  impulses  of  our  fallen  na- 
ture," replied  the  Judge,  turning  up  his  eyes.  "  He 
looked  upon  me  as  his  enemy.  He  considered  me  as 
the  cause  of  his  overwhelming  disgrace,  his  iinnrU 
nent  peril  of  death,  his  irretrievable  ruin.  There  was 
no  great  probability,  therefore,  of  his  volunteering  in- 
formation, out  of  his  dungeon,  that  should  elevate 
me  still  higher  on  the  ladder  of  prosperity.  But 
the  moment  has  now  come  when  he  must  give  up 
his  secret." 

44  And  what  if  he  should  refuse  ?  "  inquired  Hepzi- 
bah. 44  Or,  —  as  I  steadfastly  believe,  —  what  if  he 
has  xio  knowledge  of  this  wealth  ?  " 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  281 

"My  dear  cousin,"  said  Judge  Pyncheon,  with  a 
quietude  which  he  had  the  power  of  making  more  for- 
midable than  any  violence,  "  since  your  brother's  re- 
turn, I  have  taken  the  precaution  (a  highly  proper 
one  in  the  near  kinsman  and  natural  guardian  of  an 
individual  so  situated)  to  have  his  deportment  and 
habits  constantly  and  carefully  overlooked.  Your 
neighbors  have  been  eye-witnesses  to  whatever  has 
passed  in  the  garden.  The  butcher,  the  baker,  the 
fish-monger,  some  of  the  customers  of  your  shop,  and 
many  a  prying  old  woman,  have  told  me  several  of  the 
secrets  of  your  interior.  A  still  larger  circle  —  I  my- 
self, among  the  rest  —  can  testify  to  his  extravagances 
at  the  arched  window.  Thousands  beheld  him,  a  week 
or  two  ago,  on  the  point  of  flinging  himself  thence  into 
the  street.  From  all  this  testimony,  I  am  led  to  ap- 
prehend —  reluctantly,  and  with  deep  grief  —  that 
Clifford's  misfortunes  have  so  affected  his  intellect, 
never  very  strong,  that  he  cannot  safely  remain  at 
large.  The  alternative,  you  must  be  aware,  —  and  its 
adoption  will  depend  entirely  on  the  decision  which  I 
am  now  about  to  make,  —  the  alternative  is  his  con- 
finement, probably  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  in  a 
public  asylum  for  persons  in  his  unfortunate  state  of 
mind." 

"  You  cannot  mean  it !  "  shrieked  Hepzibah. 

"  Should  my  cousin  Clifford,"  continued  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon,  wholly  undisturbed,  "  from  mere  malice,  and 
hatred  of  one  whose  interests  ought  naturally  to  be 
dear  to  him,  —  a  mode  of  passion  that,  as  often  as 
any  other,  indicates  mental  disease,  —  should  he  re- 
fuse me  the  information  so  important  to  myself,  and 
which  he  assuredly  possesses,  I  shall  consider  it  the 
one  needed  jot  of  evidence  to  satisfy  my  mind  of  his 


282     THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

insanity.  And,  once  sure  of  the  course  pointed  out 
by  conscience,  you  know  me  too  well,  Cousin  Hepzi- 
bah,  to  entertain  a  doubt  that  I  shall  pursue  it." 

"  O,  Jaffrey,  —  Cousin  Jaffrey !  "  cried  Hepzibah, 
mournfully,  not  passionately,  "  it  is  you  that  are  dis- 
eased in  mind,  not  Clifford !  You  have  forgotten  that 
a  woman  was  your  mother  !  —  that  you  have  had  sis- 
ters, brothers,  children  of  your  own  !  —  or  that  there 
ever  was  affection  between  man  and  man,  or  pity  from 
one  man  to  another,  in  this  miserable  world !  Else, 
how  could  you  have  dreamed  of  this  ?  You  are  not 
young,  Cousin  Jaffrey  !  —  no,  nor  middle-aged, —  but 
already  an  old  man !  The  hair  is  white  upon  your 
head  !  How  many  years  have  you  to  live  ?  Are  you 
not  rich  enough  for  that  little  time?  Shall  you  be 
hungry,  —  shall  you  lack  clothes,  or  a  roof  to  shelter 
you,  —  between  this  point  and  the  grave  ?  No !  but, 
with  the  half  of  what  you  now  possess,  you  could 
revel  in  costly  food  and  wines,  and  build  a  house  twice 
as  splendid  as  you  now  inhabit,  and  make  a  far  greater 
show  to  the  world,  —  and  yet  leave  riches  to  your 
only  son,  to  make  him  bless  the  hour  of  your  death ! 
Then,  why  should  you  do  this  cruel,  cruel  thing?  — 
«o  mad  a  thing,  that  I  know  not  whether  to  call  it 
wicked !  Alas,  Cousin  Jaffrey,  this  hard  and  grasp- 
ing spirit  has  run  in  our  blood  these  two  hundred 
years.  You  are  but  doing  over  again,  in  another 
shape,  what  your  ancestor  before  you  did,  and  send- 
ing down  to  your  posterity  the  curse  inherited  from 
him!" 

"Talk  sense,  Hepzibah,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  ex- 
claimed the  Judge,  with  the  impatience  natural  to  a 
reasonable  man,  on  hearing  anything  so  utterly  ab- 
furd  as  the  above,  in  a  discussion  about  matters  of 


THE  SCOWL  AND  SMILE.  283 

business.  "  I  have  told  you  my  determination.  I  am 
not  apt  to  change.  Clifford  must  give  up  his  secret 
or  take  the  consequences.  And  let  him  decide  quickly ; 
for  I  have  several  affairs  to  attend  to  this  morning, 
and  an  important  dinner  engagement  with  some  polit» 
ical  friends." 

"  Clifford  has  no  secret  1  "  answered  HepzibaK. 
u  And  God  will  not  let  you  do  the  thing  you  medi- 
tate ! " 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  the  unmoved  Judge.  "  Mean- 
while, choose  whether  you  will  summon  Clifford,  and 
allow  this  business  to  be  amicably  settled  by  an  inter- 
view between  two  kinsmen,  or  drive  me  to  harsher 
measures,  which  I  should  be  most  happy  to  feel  my- 
self justified  in  avoiding.  The  responsibility  is  alto- 
gether on  your  part." 

"  You  are  stronger  than  I,"  said  Hepzibah,  after  a 
brief  consideration ;  "  and  you  have  no  pity  in  your 
strength !  Clifford  is  not  now  insane  ;  but  the  inter- 
view which  you  insist  upon  may  go  far  to  make  him 
so.  Nevertheless,  knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  believe  it 
to  be  my  best  course  to  allow  you  to  judge  for  your- 
self as  to  the  improbability  of  his  possessing  any  valu- 
able secret.  I  will  call  Clifford.  Be  merciful  in  your 
dealings  with  him !  —  be  far  more  merciful  than  your 
heart  bids  you  be !  —  for  God  is  looking  at  you,  Jaf- 
irey  Pyncheon !  " 

The  Judge  followed  his  cousin  from  the  shop,  where 
the  foregoing  conversation  had  passed,  into  the  par- 
lor,  and  flung  himself  heavily  into  the  great  ances- 
tral chair.  Many  a  former  Pyncheon  had  found  re- 
pose in  its  capacious  arms  :  rosy  children,  after  their 
sports ;  young  men,  dreamy  with  love ;  grown  men, 
weary  with  cares;  old  men,  burdened  with  winters, 


284     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

—  they  had  mused,  and  slumbered,  and  departed  to 
a  yet  profounder  sleep.     It  had  been  a  long  tradition, 
though  a  doubtful  one,  that  this  was  the  very  chair, 
seated  in  which,  the  earliest  of  the  Judge's  New  Eng- 
land forefathers  —  he  whose  picture  still  hung  upon 
the  wall  —  had  given  a  dead  man's  silent  and  stem 
reception  to  the  throng  of  distinguished  guests.    From 
that  hour  of  evil  omen  until  the  present,  it  may  be, 

—  though  we  know  not  the  secret  of  his  heart,  —  but 
it  may  be  that  no  wearier  and  sadder  man  had  ever 
sunk  into  the  chair  than  this  same  Judge  Pyneheon, 
whom  we  have  just  beheld  so  immitigably  hard  and 
resolute.     Surely,  it  must  have  been  at  no  slight  cost 
that  he  had  thus  fortified  his  soul  with  iron.     Such 
calmness  is   a  mightier  effort  than  the   violence  of 
weaker  men.     And  there  was  yet  a  heavy  task  for 
him  to  do.     Was  it  a  little  matter,  —  a  trifle  to  be 
prepared  for  in  a  single  moment,  and  to  be  rested 
from  in  another  moment,  —  that  he  must  now,  after 
thirty  years,  encounter  a  kinsman  risen  from  a  living 
tomb,  and  wrench  a  secret  from  him,  or  else  consign 
Lim  to  a  living  tomb  again  ? 

"  Did  you  speak  ?  "  asked  Hepzibah,  looking  in  from 
the  threshold  of  the  parlor ;  for  she  imagined  that  the 
Judge  had  uttered  some  sound  which  she  was  anxious 
to  interpret  as  a  relenting  impulse.  "  I  thought  you 
called  me  back." 

"  No,  no  !  "  gruffly  answered  Judge  Pyneheon,  with 
a  harsh  frown,  while  his  brow  grew  almost  a  black 
purple,  in  the  shadow  of  the  room.  "  Why  should  I 
sail  you  back?  Time  flies!  Bid  Clifford  come  td 
me!" 

The  Judge  had  taken  his  watch  from  his  vest-pocket 
and  now  held  it  in  his  hand,  measuring  the  interval 
which  was  to  ensue  before  the  appearance  of  Clifford. 


XVI. 

CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER. 

had  the  old  house  appeared  so  dismal  to 
poor  Hepzibah  as  when  she  departed  on  that  wretched 
errand.  There  was  a  strange  aspect  in  it.  As  she 
trode  along  the  foot-worn  passages,  and  opened  one 
crazy  door  after  another,  and  ascended  the  creaking 
staircase,  she  gazed  wistfully  and  fearfully  around.  It 
would  have  been  no  marvel,  to  her  excited  mind,  if, 
behind  or  beside  her,  there  had  been  the  rustle  of  dead 
people's  garments,  or  pale  visages  awaiting  her  on  the 
landing-place  above.  Her  nerves  were  set  all  ajar  by 
the  scene  of  passion  and  terror  through  which  she  had 
just  struggled.  Her  colloquy  with  Judge  Pyncheon, 
who  so  perfectly  represented  the  person  and  attributes 
of  the  founder  of  the  family,  had  called  back  the  dreary 
past.  It  weighed  upon  her  heart.  Whatever  she  had 
heard,  from  legendary  aunts  and  grandmothers,  con- 
cerning the  good  or  evil  fortunes  of  the  Pyncheons,  — 
Stories  which  had  heretofore  been  kept  warm  in  her 
remembrance  by  the  chimney-corner  glow  that  was  as- 
sociated with  them,  —  now  recurred  to  her,  sombre, 
ghastly,  cold,  like  most  passages  of  family  history, 
Vrhen  brooded  over  in  melancholy  mood.  The  whole 
seemed  little  else  but  a  series  of  calamity,  reproducing 
itself  in  successive  generations,  with  one  general  hue, 
and  varying  in  little,  save  the  outline.  But  Hepzibah 
now  felt  as  if  the  Judge,  and  Clifford,  and  herself,  — • 


286     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

they  three  together,  —  were  on  the  point  of  adding  an- 
other incident  to  the  annals  of  the  house,  with  a  bolder 
relief  of  wrong  and  sorrow,  which  would  cause  it  to 
stand  out  from  all  the  rest.  Thus  it  is  that  the  grief 
of  the  passing  moment  takes  upon  itself  an  individual* 
ity,  and  a  character  of  climax,  which  it  is  destined  tc 
lose  after  a  while,  and  to  fade  into  the  dark  gray  tissue 
common  to  the  grave  or  glad  events  of  many  years 
ago.  It  is  but  for  a  moment,  comparatively,  that  any. 
thing  looks  strange  or  startling, — a  truth  that  has 
the  bitter  and  the  sweet  in  it. 

But  Hepzibah  could  not  rid  herself  of  the  sense  of 
something  unprecedented  at  that  instant  passing  and 
soon  to  be  accomplished.  Her  nerves  were  in  a  shake. 
Instinctively  she  paused  before  the  arched  window,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  street,  in  order  to  seize  its  perma- 
nent objects  with  her  mental  grasp,  and  thus  to  steady 
herself  from  the  reel  and  vibration  which  affected  her 
more  immediate  sphere.  It  brought  her  up,  as  we  may 
say,  with  a  kind  of  shock,  when  she  beheld  everything 
under  the  same  appearance  as  the  day  before,  and 
numberless  preceding  days,  except  for  the  difference 
between  sunshine  and  sullen  storm.  Her  eyes  trav- 
elled along  the  street,  from  doorstep  to  doorstep,  not- 
ing the  wet  sidewalks,  with  here  and  there  a  puddle  in 
hollows  that  had  been  imperceptible  until  filled  with 
water.  She  screwed  her  dim  optics  to  their  acutest 
point,  in  the  hope  of  making  out,  with  greater  distinct- 
ness, a  certain  window,  where  she  half  saw,  half 
guessed,  that  a  tailor's  seamstress  was  sitting  at  her 
work.  Hepzibah  flung  herself  upon  that  unknown 
woman's  companionship,  even  thus  far  off.  Then  she 
was  attracted  by  a  chaise  rapidly  passing,  and  watched 
.its  moist  and  glistening  top,  and  its  splashing  wheels^ 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER*  287 

nntil  it  had  turned  the  corner,  and  refused  to  carry 
any  further  her  idly  trifling,  because  appalled  and 
overburdened,  mind.  When  the  vehicle  had  disap- 
peared, she  allowed  herself  still  another  loitering  mo- 
ment ;  for  the  patched  figure  of  good  Uncle  Venner 
was  now  visible,  coming  slowly  from  the  head  of  the 
street  downward,  with  a  rheumatic  limp,  because  the 
east  wind  had  got  into  his  joints.  Hepzibah  wished 
that  he  would  pass  yet  more  slowly,  and  befriend  her 
shivering  solitude  a  little  longer.  Anything  that  would 
take  her  out  of  the  grievous  present,  and  interpose 
human  beings  betwixt  herself  and  what  was  nearest  to 
her,  —  whatever  would  defer  for  an  instant,  the  inevi- 
table errand  on  which  she  was  bound,  —  all  such  im- 
pediments were  welcome.  Next  to  the  lightest  heart, 
the  heaviest  is  apt  to  be  most  playful. 

Hepzibah  had  little  hardihood  for  her  own  proper 
pain  and  far  less  for  what  she  must  inflict  on  Clifford. 
Of  so  slight  a  nature,  and  so  shattered  by  his  previous 
calamities,  it  could  npt  well  be  short  of  utter  ruin  to 
bring  him  face  to  face  with  the  hard,  relentless  man, 
who  had  been  his  evil  destiny  through  life.  Even  had 
there  been  no  bitter  recollections,  nor  any  hostile  in- 
terest now  at  stake  between  them,  the  mere  natural  re- 
pugnance of  the  more  sensitive  system  to  the  massive, 
weighty,  and  unimpressible  one,  must,  in  itself,  have 
been  disastrous  to  the  former.  It  would  he  like  fling- 
ing a  porcelain  vase,  with  already  a  crack  in  it,  against 
a  granite  column.  Never  before  had  Hepzibah  so 
adequately  estimated  the  powerful  character  of  her 
cousin  Jaffrey,  —  powerful  by  intellect,  energy  of  will, 
the  long  habit  of  acting  among  men,  and,  as  she  be- 
lieved, by  his  unscrupulous  pursuit  of  selfish  ends 
through  evil  means.  It  did  but  increase  the  difficulty 


288  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

that  Judge  Pyncheon  was  under  a  delusion  as  to  the 
secret  which  he  supposed  Clifford  to  possess.  Men  of 
his  strength  of  purpose,  and  customary  sagacity,  if 
they  chance  to  adopt  a  mistaken  opinion  in  practical 
matters,  so  wedge  it  and  fasten  it  among  things  known 
to  be  true,  that  to  wrench  it  out  of  their  minds  is 
hardly  less  difficult  than  pulling  up  an  oak.  Thus,  as 
the  Judge  required  an  impossibility  of  Clifford,  the 
latter,  as  he  could  not  perform  it,  must  needs  perish. 
For  what,  in  the  grasp  of  a  man  like  this,  was  to  be- 
come of  Clifford's  soft  poetic  nature,  that  never  should 
have  had  a  task  more  stubborn  than  to  set  a  life  of 
beautiful  enjoyment  to  the  flow  and  rhythm  of  musical 
cadences  I  Indeed,  what  had  become  of  it  already  ? 
Broken !  Blighted !  All  but  annihilated !  Soon  to 
be  wholly  so ! 

For  a  moment,  the  thought  crossed  Hepzibah's 
mind,  whether  Clifford  might  not  really  have  such 
knowledge  of  their  deceased  uncle's  vanished  estate  as 
the  Judge  imputed  to  him.  She  remembered  some 
vague  intimations,  on  her  brother's  part,  which  —  if 
the  supposition  were  not  essentially  preposterous  — 
might  have  been  so  interpreted.  There  had  been 
schemes  of  travel  and  residence  abroad,  day-dreams  of 
brilliant  life  at  home,  and  splendid  castles  in  the  air, 
which  it  would  have  required  boundless  wealth  to  build 
fcnd  realize.  Had  this  wealth  been  in  her  power,  how 
gladly  would  Hepzibah  have  bestowed  it  all  upon  her 
iron-hearted  kinsman,  to  buy  for  Clifford  the  freedom 
and  seclusion  of  the  desolate  old  house !  But  she  be- 
lieved that  her  brother's  schemes  were  as  destitute  of 
actual  substance  and  purpose  as  a  child's  pictures  of 
its  future  life,  while  sitting  in  a  little  chair  by  its 
mother's  knee.  Clifford  had  none  but  shadowy  gold 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER.  28S 

at  his  command ;  and  it  was  not  the  stuff  to  satisfy 
Judge  Pyncheon  I 

Was  there  no  help,  ir_  their  extremity?  It  seemed 
strange  that  there  should  be  none,  with  a  city  round 
About  her.  It  would  be  so  easy  to  throw  up  the  win- 
dow, and  send  forth  a  shriek,  at  the  strange  agony  of 
which  everybody  would  come  hastening  to. the  rescue, 
well  understanding  it  to  be  the  cry  of  a  human  soul, 
at  some  dreadful  crisis !  But  how  wild,  how  almost 
laughable,  the  fatality,  —  and  yet  how  continually  it 
comes  to  pass,  thought  Hepzibah,  in  this  dull  delirium 
of  a  world,  —  that  whosoever,  and  with  however  kindly 
a  purpose,  should  come  to  help,  they  would  be  sure  to 
help  the  strongest  side !  Might  and  wrong  combined, 
like  iron  magnetized,  are  endowed  with  irresistible  at- 
traction. There  would  be  Judge  Pyncheon,  —  a  per- 
son eminent  in  the  public  view,  of  high  station  and 
great  wealth,  a  philanthropist,  a  member  of  Congress 
and  of  the  church,  and  intimately  associated  with 
whatever  else  bestows  good  name,  —  so  imposing,  in 
these  advantageous  lights,  that  Hepzibah  herself  could 
hardly  help  shrinking  from  her  own  conclusions  as  to 
his  hollow  integrity.  The  Judge,  on  one  side !  And 
who,  on  the  other  ?  The  guilty  Clifford !  Once  a  by- 
word !  Now,  an  indistinctly  remembered  ignominy  I 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  this  perception  that  the 
Judge  would  draw  all  human  aid  to  his  own  behalf, 
Hepzibah  was  so  unaccustomed  to  act  for  herself,  that 
the  least  word  of  counsel  would  have  swayed  her  to 
any  mode  of  action.  Little  Phosbe  Pyncheon  would 
at  once  have  lighted  up  the  whole  scene,  if  not  by  any 
available  suggestion,  yet  simply  by  the  warm  vivacity 
of  her  character.  The  idea  of  the  artist  occurred  to 
Hepzibah.  Young  and  unknown,  mere  vagrant  ad* 

VOL.  in.  19 


290    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

venturer  as  he  was,  she  had  been  conscious  of  a  force 
in  Holgrave  which  might  well  adapt  him  to  be  the 
champion  of  a  crisis.  With  this  thought  in  her  mind, 
she  unbolted  a  door,  cobwebbed  and  long  disused,  but 
which  had  served  as  a  former  medium  of  communica- 
tion between  her  own  part  of  the  house  and  the  gable 
where  the  wandering  daguerreotypist  had  now  estab- 
lished his  temporary  home.  He  was  not  there.  A 
book,  face  downward,  on  the  table,  a  roll  of  manu- 
script, a  half-written  sheet,  a  newspaper,  some  tools  of 
his  present  occupation,  and  several  rejected  daguerre- 
otypes, conveyed  an  impression  as  if  he  were  close  at 
hand.  But,  at  this  period  of  the  day,  as  Hepzibah 
might  have  anticipated,  the  artist  was  at  his  public 
rooms.  With  an  impulse  of  idle  curiosity,  that  flick- 
ered among  her  heavy  thoughts,  she  looked  at  one 
of  the  daguerreotypes,  and  beheld  Judge  Pyncheon 
frowning  at  her.  Fate  stared  her  in  the  face.  She 
turned  back  from  her  fruitless  quest,  with  a  heart- 
sinking  sense  of  disappointment.  In  all  her  years  of 
seclusion,  she  had  never  felt,  as  now,  what  it  was  to 
be  alone.  It  seemed  as  if  the  house  stood  in  a  desert, 
or,  by  some  spell,  was  made  invisible  to  those  who 
dwelt  around,  or  passed  beside  it ;  so  that  any  mode 
of  misfortune,  miserable  accident,  or  crime  might  hap- 
pen in  it  without  the  possibility  of  aid.  In  her  grief 
and  wounded  pride,  Hepzibah  had  spent  her  life  in 
divesting  herself  of  friends  ;  she  had  wilfully  cast  off 
the  support  which  God  has  ordained  his  creatures  to 
need  from  one  another ;  and  it  was  now  her  punish- 
ment, that  Clifford  and  herself  would  fall  the  easier 
victims  to  their  kindred  enemy. 

Returning  to  the  arched  window,  she  lifted  her  eyes, 
— •  scowling,  poor,  dim-sighted  Hepzibah,  in  the  face 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER.  291 

of  Heaven!  —  and  strove  hard  to  send  up  a  prayei 
through  the  dense  gray  pavement  of  clouds.  Those 
mists  had  gathered,  as  if  to  symbolize  a  great,  brood- 
ing mass  of  human  trouble,  doubt,  confusion,  and  chill 
indifference,  between  earth  and  the  better  regions. 
Her  faith  was  too  weak ;  the  prayer  too  heavy  to  be 
thus  uplifted.  It  fell  back,  a  lump  of  lead,  upon  her 
heart.  It  smote  her  with  the  wretched  conviction  that 
Providence  intermeddled  not  in  these  petty  wrongs  of 
one  individual  to  his  fellow,  nor  had  any  balm  for  these 
little  agonies  of  a  solitary  soul ;  but  shed  its  justice, 
and  its  mercy,  in  a  broad,  sunlike  sweep,  over  half  the 
Universe  at  once.  Its  vastness  made  it  nothing.  But 
Hepzibah  did  not  see  that,  just  as  there  comes  a  warm 
sunbeam  into  every  cottage  window,  so  comes  a  love- 
beam  of  God's  care  and  pity  for  every  separate  need. 

At  last,  finding  no  other  pretext  for  deferring  the 
torture  that  she  was  to  inflict  on  Clifford,  —  her  re- 
luctance to  which  was  the  true  cause  of  her  loitering 
at  the  window,  her  search  for  the  artist,  and  even  her 
abortive  prayer,  —  dreading,  also,  to  hear  the  stern 
voice  of  Judge  Pyncheon  from  below  stairs,  chiding 
her  delay,  —  she  crept  slowly,  a  pale,  grief -stricken 
figure,  a  dismal  shape  of  woman,  with  almost  torpid 
limbs,  slowly  to  her  brother's  door,  and  knocked  1 

There  was  no  reply ! 

And  how  should  there  have  been?  Her  hand, 
tremulous  with  the  shrinking  purpose  which  directed 
it,  had  smitten  so  feebly  against  the  door  that  the 
Bound  could  hardly  have  gone  inward.  She  knocked 
again.  Still,  no  response !  Nor  was  it  to  be  won- 
dered at.  She  had  struck  with  the  entire  force  of 
her  heart's  vibration,  communicating,  by  some  subtile 
magnetism,  her  own  terror  to  the  summons.  Clifford 


292    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

would  turn  his  face  to  the  pillow,  and  cover  his  head 
beneath  the  bedclothes,  like  a  startled  child  at  mid- 
night. She  knocked  a  third  time,  three  regulai 
strokes,  gentle,  but  perfectly  distinct,  and  with  mean- 
ing in  them ;  for,  modulate  it  with  what  cautious  art 
we  will,  the  hand  cannot  help  playing  some  tune  of 
what  we  feel,  upon  the  senseless  wood. 

Clifford  returned  no  answer. 

"  Clifford !  dear  brother !  "  said  Hepzibah.  "  Shall 
I  come  in  ?  " 

A  silence. 

Two  or  three  times,  and  more,  Hepzibah  repeated 
his  name,  without  result ;  till,  thinking  her  brother's 
sleep  unwontedly  profound,  she  undid  the  door,  and 
entering,  found  the  chamber  vacant.  How  could  he 
have  come  forth,  and  when,  without  her  knowledge  ? 
Was  it  possible  that,  in  spite  of  the  stormy  day,  and 
worn  out  with  the  irksomeness  within  doors,  he  had 
betaken  himself  to  his  customary  haunt  in  the  garden, 
and  was  now  shivering  under  the  cheerless  shelter  of 
the  summer-house?  She  hastily  threw  up  a  window, 
thrust  forth  her  turbaned  head  and  the  half  of  her 
gaunt  figure,  and  searched  the  whole  garden  through, 
as  completely  as  her  dim  vision  would  allow.  She 
could  see  the  interior  of  the  summer-house,  and  its  cir- 
cular seat,  kept  moist  by  the  droppings  of  the  roof. 
It  had  no  occupant.  Clifford  was  not  thereabouts; 
unless,  indeed,  he  had  crept  for  concealment  (as,  for  a 
moment,  Hepzibah  fancied  might  be  the  case)  into  a 
great,  wet  mass  of  tangled  and  broad-leaved  shadow, 
where  the  squash-vines  were  clambering  tumultuously 
upon  an  old  wooden  framework,  set  casually  aslant 
against  the  fence.  This  could  not  be,  however ;  he 
was  not  there ;  for,  while  Hepzibah  was  looking,  a 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER.  298 

strange  grimalkin  stole  forth  from  the  very  spot,  and 
picked  his  way  across  the  garden.  Twice  he  paused 
to  snuff  the  air,  and  then  anew  directed  his  course 
towards  the  parlor  window.  Whether  it  was  only  on 
account  of  the  stealthy,  prying  manner  common  to  the 
race,  or  that  this  cat  seemed  to  have  more  than  or- 
dinary mischief  in  his  thoughts,  the  old  gentlewoman, 
in  spite  of  her  much  perplexity,  felt  an  impulse  to 
drive  the  animal  away,  and  accordingly  flung  down  a 
window-stick.  The  cat  stared  up  at  her,  like  a  de- 
tected thief  or  murderer,  and,  the  next  instant,  took  to 
flight.  No  other  living  creature  was  visible  in  the 
garden.  Chanticleer  and  his  family  had  either  not 
left  their  roost,  disheartened  by  the  interminable  rain, 
or  had  done  the  next  wisest  thing,  by  seasonably  re- 
turning to  it.  Hepzibah  closed  the  window. 

But  where  was  Clifford  ?  Could  it  be  that,  aware 
of  the  presence  of  his  Evil  Destiny,  he  had  crept  si- 
lently down  the  staircase,  while  the  Judge  and  Hepzi- 
bah stood  talking  in  the  shop,  and  had  softly  undone 
the  fastenings  of  the  outer  door,  and  made  his  escape 
into  the  street  ?  With  that  thought,  she  seemed  to 
behold  his  gray,  wrinlded,  yet  childlike  aspect,  in  the 
old-fashioned  garments  which  he  wore  about  the  house ; 
a  figure  such  as  one  sometimes  imagines  himself  to 
be,  with  the  world's  eye  upon  him,  in  a  troubled  dream. 
This  figure  of  her  wretched  brother  would  go  wander- 
ing through  the  city,  attracting  all  eyes,  and  every- 
body's wonder  and  repugnance,  like  a  ghost,  the  more 
to  be  shuddered  at  because  visible  at  noontide.  To 
incur  the  ridicule  of  the  younger  crowd,  that  knew 
Mm  not,  —  the  harsher  scorn  and  indignation  of  a  few 
old  men,  who  might  recall  his  once  familiar  features ! 
To  be  the  sport  of  boys,  who,  when  old  enough  to  run 


294      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

about  the  streets,  have  no  more  reverence  for  what  is 
beautiful  and  holy,  nor  pity  for  what  is  sad,  —  no 
more  sense  of  sacred  misery,  sanctifying  the  human 
shape  in  which  it  embodies  itself,  —  than  if  Satan 
were  the  father  of  them  all  I  Goaded  by  their  taunts, 
their  loud,  shrill  cries,  and  cruel  laughter,  —  insulted 
by  the  filth  of  the  public  ways,  which  they  would  fling 
upon  him,  —  or,  as  it  might  well  be,  distracted  by 
the  mere  strangeness  of  his  situation,  though  nobody 
should  afflict  him  with  so  much  as  a  thoughtless  word, 
—  what  wonder  if  Clifford  were  to  break  into  some 
wild  extravagance  which  was  certain  to  be  interpreted 
as  lunacy  ?  Thus  Judge  Pyncheon's  fiendish  scheme 
would  be  ready  accomplished  to  his  hands ! 

Then  Hepzibah  reflected  that  the  town  was  almost 
completely  water-girdled.  The  wharves  stretched  out 
towards  the  centre  of  the  harbor,  and,  in  this  inclem- 
ent weather,  were  deserted  by  the  ordinary  throng  of 
merchants,  laborers,  and  sea-faring  men  ;  each  wharf 
a  solitude,  with  the  vessels  moored  stem  and  stern, 
along  its  misty  length.  Should  her  brother's  aimless 
footsteps  stray  thitherward,  and  he  but  bend,  one  mo- 
ment, over  the  deep,  black  tide,  would  he  not  bethink 
himself  that  here  was  the  sure  refuge  within  his  reach, 
and  that,  with  a  single  step,  or  the  slightest  overbal- 
ance of  his  body,  he  might  be  forever  beyond  his  kins- 
man's gripe  ?  Oh,  the  temptation !  To  make  of  hia 
ponderous  sorrow  a  security !  To  sink,  with  its  leaden 
Weight  upon  him,  and  never  rise  again  ! 

The  horror  of  this  last  conception  was  too  much  f  01 
Hepzibah.  Even  Jaffrey  Pyncheon  must  help  her 
now  I  She  hastened  down  the  staircase,  shrieking  as 
she  went. 

"Clifford  is  gone!  "  she  cried.     " I  cannot  find  «uj 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER.  295 

brother !  Help,  Jaffrey  Pyncheon  1  Some  harm  -will 
happen  to  him !  " 

She  threw  open  the  parlor-door.  But,  what  with 
the  shade  of  branches  across  the  windows,  and  the 
smoke-blackened  ceiling,  and  the  dark  oak-panelling 
of  the  walls,  there  was  hardly  so  much  daylight  in  the 
room  that  Hepzibah's  imperfect  sight  could  accurately 
distinguish  the  Judge's  figure.  She  was  certain,  how- 
ever, that  she  saw  him  sitting  in  the  ancestral  arm- 
chair, near  the  centre  of  the  floor,  with  his  face  some- 
what averted,  and  looking  towards  a  window.  So 
firm  and  quiet  is  the  nervous  system  of  such  men  as 
Judge  Pyncheon,  that  he  had  perhaps  stirred  not  more 
than  once  since  her  departure,  but,  in  the  hard  com- 
posure of  his  temperament,  retained  the  position  into 
which  accident  had  thrown  him. 

"  I  tell  you,  Jaffrey,"  cried  Hepzibah,  impatiently, 
as  she  turned  from  the  parlor -door  to  search  other 
rooms,  "  my  brother  is  not  in  his  chamber !  You  must 
help  me  seek  him  !  " 

But  Judge  Pyncheon  was  not  the  man  to  let  him- 
self be  startled  from  an  easy-chair  with  haste  ill-befit- 
ting either  the  dignity  of  his  character  or  his  broad 
personal  basis,  by  the  alarm  of  an  hysteric  woman. 
Yet,  considering  his  own  interest  in  the  matter,  he 
might  have  bestirred  himself  with  a  little  more  alac- 
rity. 

"Do  you  hear  me,  Jaffrey  Pyncheon?"  screamed 
Hepzibah,  as  she  again  approached  the  parlor-door, 
after  an  ineffectual  search  elsewhere.  "Clifford  is 
gone ! " 

At  this  instant,  on  the  threshold  of  the  parlor, 
emerging  from  within,  appeared  Clifford  himself ! 
His  face  was  preternaturally  pale ;  so  deadly  white, 


296     THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

indeed,  that,  through  all  the  glimmering  indistinctness 
of  the  passage-way,  Hepzibah  could  discern  his  fea- 
tures, as  if  a  light  fell  on  them  alone.  Their  vivid 
and  wild  expression  seemed  likewise  sufficient  to  illu- 
minate them ;  it  was  an  expression  of  scorn  and 
mockery,  coinciding  with  the  emotions  indicated  by 
his  gesture.  As  Clifford  stood  on  the  threshold,  partly 
turning  back,  he  pointed  his  finger  within  the  parlor, 
and  shook  it  slowly  as  though  he  would  have  sum- 
moned, not  Hepzibah  alone,  but  the  whole  world,  to 
gaze  at  some  object  inconceivably  ridiculous.  This 
action,  so  ill-timed  and  extravagant,  —  accompanied, 
too,  with  a  look  that  showed  more  like  joy  than  any 
other  kind  of  excitement,  —  compelled  Hepzibah  to 
dread  that  her  stern  kinsman's  ominous  visit  had 
driven  her  poor  brother  to  absolute  insanity.  Nor 
could  she  otherwise  account  for  the  Judge's  quiescent 
mood  than  by  supposing  him  craftily  on  the  wateh, 
while  Clifford  developed  these  symptoms  of  a  dis- 
tracted mind. 

"  Be  quiet,  Clifford  !  "  whispered  his  sister,  raising 
her  hand  to  impress  caution.  "  Oh,  for  Heaven's  sake, 
be  qiuet !  " 

"  Let  him  be  quiet !  What  can  he  do  better  ?  "  an- 
swered Clifford,  with  a  still  wilder  gesture,  pointing 
into  the  room  which  he  had  just  quitted.  "  As  for  us, 
Hepzibah,  we  can  dance  now !  —  we  can  sing,  laugh, 
play,  do  what  we  will !  The  weight  is  gone,  Hepzi- 
bah !  it  is  gone  off  this  weary  old  world,  and  we  may 
be  as  light-hearted  as  little  Phoebe  herself !  " 

And,  in  accordance  with  his  words,  he  began  to 
laugh,  still  pointing  his  finger  at  the  object,  invisible 
to  Hepzibah,  within  the  parlor.  She  was  seized  with 
a  sudden  intuition  of  some  horrible  thing.  She  thrust 


CLIFFORD'S   CHAMBER.  297 

herself  past  Clifford,  and  disappeared  into  the  room  ; 
but  almost  immediately  returned,  with  a  cry  choking 
in  her  throat.  Gazing  at  her  brother  with  an  affrighted 
glance  of  inquiry,  she  beheld  him  all  in  a  tremor  and 
a  quake,  from  head  to  foot,  while,  amid  these  commoted 
elements  of  passion  or  alarm,  still  flickered  his  gusty 
mirth. 

"  My  God !  what  is  to  become  of  us?  "  gasped  Hep- 
zibah. 

"  Come  !  "  said  Clifford,  in  a  tone  of  brief  decision, 
most  unlike  what  was  usual  with  him.  "  We  stay 
here  too  long !  Let  us  leave  the  old  house  to  our 
cousin  Jaffrey !  He  will  take  good  care  of  it !  " 

Hepzibah  now  noticed  that  Clifford  had  on  a  cloak, 
—  a  garment  of  long  ago,  —  in  which  he  had  con- 
stantly muffled  himself  during  these  days  of  easterly 
storm.  He  beckoned  with  his  hand,  and  intimated, 
so  far  as  she  could  comprehend  him,  his  purpose  that 
they  should  go  together  from  the  house.  There  are 
chaotic,  blind,  or  drunken  moments,  in  the  lives  of 
persons  who  lack  real  force  of  character,  —  moments 
of  test,  in  which  courage  would  most  assert  itself,  — 
but  where  these  individuals,  if  left  to  themselves,  stag- 
ger aimlessly  along,  or  follow  implicitly  whatever 
guidance  may  befall  them,  even  if  it  be  a  child's.  No 
matter  how  preposterous  or  insane,  a  purpose  is  a 
God-send  to  them.  Hepzibah  had  reached  this  point. 
Unaccustomed  to  action  or  responsibility,  —  full  of 
horror  at  what  she  had  seen,  and  afraid  to  inquire,  or 
almost  to  imagine,  how  it  had  come  to  pass,  —  af- 
frighted at  the  fatality  which  seemed  to  pursue  her 
brother,  —  stupefied  by  the  dim,  thick,  stifling  atmos- 
phere of  dread,  which  filled  the  house  as  with  a  death' 
smell,  and  obliterated  all  definiteness  of  thought, — 


298    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

the  yielded  without  a  question,  and  on  the  instant,  to 
the  will  which  Clifford  expressed.  For  herself,  she 
was  like  a  person  in  a  dream,  when  the  will  always 
sleeps.  Clifford,  ordinarily  so  destitute  of  this  fac- 
ulty, had  found  it  in  the  tension  of  the  crisis. 

"  Why  do  you  delay  so?  "  cried  he,  sharply.  " Put 
on  your  cloak  and  hood,  or  whatever  it  pleases  you  to 
wear !  No  matter  what ;  you  cannot  look  beautiful 
nor  brilliant,  my  poor  Hepzibah !  Take  your  purse, 
with  money  in  it,  and  come  along ! " 

Hepzibah  obeyed  these  instructions,  as  if  nothing 
else  were  to  be  done  or  thought  of.  She  began  to 
wonder,  it  is  true,  why  she  did  not  wake  up,  and  at 
what  still  more  intolerable  pitch  of  dizzy  trouble  her 
spirit  would  struggle  out  of  the  maze,  and  make  her 
conscious  that  nothing  of  all  this  had  actually  hap- 
pened. Of  course  it  was  not  real;  no  such  black, 
easterly  day  as  this  had  yet  begun  to  be ;  Judge 
Pyncheon  had  not  talked  with  her ;  Clifford  had  not 
laughed,  pointed,  beckoned  her  away  with  him  ;  but 
she  had  merely  been  afflicted  —  as  lonely  sleepers 
often  are  —  with  a  great  deal  of  unreasonable  misery, 
in  a  morning  dream ! 

"  Now  —  now  —  I  shall  certainly  awake  1  "  thought 
Hepzibah,  as  she  went  to  and  fro,  making  her  little 
preparations.  "  I  can  bear  it  no  longer !  I  must  wake 
up  now ! " 

But  it  came  not,  that  awakening  moment !  It  came 
not,  even  when,  just  before  they  left  the  house,  Clif- 
ford stole  to  the  parlor-door,  and  made  a  parting  obei- 
sance to  the  sole  occupant  of  the  room. 

"  What  an  absurd  figure  the  old  fellow  cuts  now !  ** 
whispered  he  to  Hepzibah.  "  Just  when  he  fancied 
**e  had  me  completely  under  hig  thumb!  Comet 


CLIFFORD'S  CHAMBER.  299 

eome;  make  haste!  or  he  will  start  up,  like  Giant 
Despair  in  pursuit  of  Christian  and  Hopeful,  and 
catch  us  yet !  " 

As  they  passed  into  the  street,  Clifford  directed 
Hepzibah's  attention  to  something  on  one  of  the  posts 
of  the  front  door.  It  was  merely  the  initials  of  his 
own  name,  which,  with  somewhat  of  his  characteristic! 
grace  about  the  forms  of  the  letters,  he  had  cut  there 
when  a  boy.  The  brother  and  sister  departed,  and 
left  Judge  Pyncheon  sitting  in  the  old  home  of  his 
forefathers,  all  by  himself ;  so  heavy  and  lumpish  that 
we  can  liken  him  to  nothing  better  than  a  defunct 
nightmare,  which  had  perished  in  the  midst  of  its 
wickedness,  and  left  its  flabby  corpse  on  the  breast  of 
the  tormented  one,  to  be  gotten  rid  of  as  it  might! 


xvn. 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO   OWLS. 

SUMMER  as  it  was,  the  east  wind  set  poor  Hepzi- 
ban's  few  remaining  teeth  chattering  in  her  head,  as 
she  and  Clifford  faced  it,  on  their  way  up  Pyncheon 
Street,  and  towards  the  centre  of  the  town.  Not 
merely  was  it  the  shiver  which  this  pitiless  blast 
brought  to  her  frame  (although  her  feet  and  hands, 
especially,  had  never  seemed  so  death-a-cold  as  now), 
but  there  was  a  moral  sensation,  mingling  itself  with 
the  physical  chill,  and  causing  her  to  shake  more  in 
spirit  than  in  body.  The  world's  broad,  bleak  at- 
mosphere was  all  so  comfortless!  Such,  indeed,  is 
the  impression  which  it  makes  on  every  new  adven- 
turer, even  if  he  plunge  into  it  while  the  warmest  tide 
of  life  is  bubbling  through  his  veins.  What,  then, 
must  it  have  been  to  Hepzibah  and  Clifford,  —  so 
time-stricken  as  they  were,  yet  so  like  children  in 
their  inexperience,  —  as  they  left  the  doorstep,  and 
passed  from  beneath  the  wide  shelter  of  the  Pyncheon 
Elm !  They  were  wandering  all  abroad,  on  precisely 
such  a  pilgrimage  as  a  child  often  meditates,  to  the 
world's  end,  with  perhaps  a  sixpence  and  a  biscuit 
in  his  pocket.  In  Hepzibah's  mind,  there  was  the 
wretched  consciousness  of  being  adrift.  She  had  lost 
the  faculty  of  self-guidance ;  but,  in  view  of  the  diffi- 
culties around  her,  felt  it  hardly  worth  an  effort  to 
regain  it,  and  was,  moreover,  incapable  of  making  one. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  301 

As  they  proceeded  on  their  strange  expedition  she 
now  and  then  cast  a  look  sidelong  at  Clifford,  and 
could  not  but  observe  that  he  was  possessed  and 
swayed  by  a  powerful  excitement.  It  was  this,  in- 
deed, that  gave  him  the  control  which  he  had  at  once, 
and  so  irresistibly,  established  over  his  movements.  It 
not  a  little  resembled  the  exhilaration  of  wine.  Or, 
it  might  more  fancifully  be  compared  to  a  joyous  piece 
of  music,  played  with  wild  vivacity,  but  upon  a  dis- 
ordered instrument.  As  the  cracked  jarring  note 
might  always  be  heard,  and  as  it  jarred  loudest  amid 
the  loftiest  exultation  of  the  melody,  so  was  there  a 
continual  quake  through  Clifford,  causing  him  most  to 
quiver  while  he  wore  a  triumphant  smile,  and  seemed 
almost  under  a  necessity  to  skip  in  his  gait. 

They  met  few  people  abroad,  even  on  passing  from 
the  retired  neighborhood  of  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables  into  what  was  ordinarily  the  more  thronged 
and  busier  portion  of  the  town.  Glistening  sidewalks, 
with  little  pools  of  rain,  here  and  there,  along  their 
unequal  surface  ;  umbrellas  displayed  ostentatiously  in 
the  shop-windows,  as  if  the  life  of  trade  had  concen- 
tred itself  in  that  one  article  ;  wet  leaves  of  the  horse- 
chestnut  or  elm-trees,  torn  off  untimely  by  the  blast 
and  scattered  along  the  public  way ;  an  unsightly  ac- 
cumulation of  mud  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  which 
perversely  grew  the  more  unclean  for  its  long  and 
laborious  washing,  —  these  were  the  more  definable 
points  of  a  very  sombre  picture.  In  the  way  of  move- 
ment, and  human  life,  there  was  the  hasty  rattle  of  a 
cab  or  coach,  its  driver  protected  by  a  water-proof  cap 
over  his  head  and  shoulders ;  the  forlorn  figure  of  an 
old  man,  who  seemed  to  have  crept  out  of  some  sub- 
terranean sewer,  and  was  stooping  along  the  kennel, 


802    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

and  poking  the  wet  rubbish  with  a  stick,  in  quest  of 
rusty  nails;  a  merchant  or  two,  at  the  door  of  the  post 
office,  together  with  an  editor,  and  a  miscellaneous  pol- 
itician, awaiting  a  dilatory  mail ;  a  few  visages  of  re- 
tired sea-captains  at  the  window  of  an  insurance  office, 
looking  out  vacantly  at  the  vacant  street,  blaspheming 
at  the  weather,  and  fretting  at  the  dearth  as  well  of 
public  news  as  local  gossip.  What  a  treasure-trove 
to  these  venerable  quidnuncs,  could  they  have  guessed 
the  secret  which  Hepzibah  and  Clifford  were  carrying 
along  with  them !  But  their  two  figures  attracted 
hardly  so  much  notice  as  that  of  a  young  girl,  who 
passed  at  the  same  instant,  and  happened  to  raise  her 
skirt  a  trifle  too  high  above  her  ankles.  Had  it  been 
a  sunny  and  cheerful  day,  they  could  hardly  have  gone 
through  the  streets  without  making  themselves  obnox- 
ious to  remark.  Now,  probably,  they  were  felt  to  be 
in  keeping  with  the  dismal  and  bitter  weather,  and 
therefore  did  not  stand  out  in  strong  relief ;  as  if  the 
sun  were  shining  on  them,  but  melted  into  the  gray 
gloom  and  were  forgotten  as  soon  as  gone. 

Poor  Hepzibah!  Could  she  have  understood  this 
fact,  it  would  have  brought  her  some  little  comfort ; 
for,  to  all  her  other,  troubles,  —  strange  to  say!  — 
there  was  added  the  womanish  and  old-maiden-like 
misery  arising  from  a  sense  of  unseemliness  in  her 
attire.  Thus,  she  was  fain  to  shrink  deeper  into  her- 
self, as  it  were,  as  if  in  the  hope  of  making  people 
suppose  that  here  was  only  a  cloak  and  hood,  thread- 
bare and  wofully  faded,  taking  an  airing  in  the  midst 
of  the  storm,  without  any  wearer ! 

As  they  went  on,  the  feeling  of  indistinctness  and 
unreality  kept  dimly  hovering  round  about  her,  and 
BO  diffusing  itself  into  her  system  that  one  of  her 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  303 

hands  was  hardly  palpable  to  the  touch  of  the  other. 
Any  certainty  would  have  been  preferable  to  this. 
She  whispered  to  herself,  again  and  again,  "  Am  I 
awake  ?  —  Am  I  awake  ?  "  and  sometimes  exposed 
her  face  to  the  chill  spatter  of  the  wind,  for  the  sake 
of  its  rude  assurance  that  she  was.  Whether  it  was 
Clifford's  purpose,  or  only  chance,  had  led  them 
thither,  they  now  found  themselves  passing  beneath 
the  arched  entrance  of  a  large  structure  of  gray  stone. 
Within,  there  was  a  spacious  breadth,  and  an  airy 
height  from  floor  to  roof,  now  partially  filled  with 
smoke  and  steam,  which  eddied  voluminously  upward 
and  formed  a  mimic  cloud -region  over  their  heads. 
A  train  of  cars  was  just  ready  for  a  start ;  the  loco- 
motive was  fretting  and  fuming,  like  a  steed  impa- 
tient for  a  headlong  rush ;  and  the  bell  rang  out  its 
hasty  peal,  so  well  expressing  the  brief  summons  which 
life  vouchsafes  to  us  in  its  hurried  career.  Without 
question  or  delay,  —  with  the  irresistible  decision,  if 
not  rather  to  be  called  recklessness,  which  had  so 
strangely  taken  possession  of  him,  and  through  him 
of  Hepzibah,  —  Clifford  impelled  her  towards  the 
cars,  and  assisted  her  to  enter.  The  signal  was  given ; 
the  engine  puffed  forth  its  short,  quick  breaths ;  the 
train  began  its  movement ;  and,  along  with  a  hundred 
other  passengers,  these  two  unwonted  travellers  sped 
onward  like  the  wind. 

At  last,  therefore,  and  after  so  long  estrangement 
from  everything  that  the  world  acted  or  enjoyed,  they 
had  been  drawn  into  the  great  current  of  human  life, 
and  were  swept  away  with  it,  as  by  the  suction  of  fate 
itself. 

Still  haunted  with  the  idea  that  not  one  of  the  past 
incidents,  inclusive  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  visit,  could 


804  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

be  real,  the  recluse  of  the  Seven  Gables  murmured  in 
her  brother's  ear,  — 

"  Clifford  !     Clifford  !     Is  not  this  a  dream  ?  " 

"  A  dream,  Hepzibah !  "  repeated  he,  almost  laugh 
ing  in  her  face.  "  On  the  contrary,  I  have  never  been 
awake  before ! " 

Meanwhile,  looking  from  the  window,  they  could  see 
the  world  racing  past  them.  At  one  moment,  they 
were  rattling  through  a  solitude ;  the  next,  a  village 
had  grown  up  around  them ;  a  few  breaths  more,  and 
it  had  vanished,  as  if  swallowed  by  an  earthquake. 
The  spires  of  meeting-houses  seemed  set  adrift  from 
their  foundations  ;  the  broad-based  hills  glided  away. 
Everything  was  unfixed  from  its  age-long  rest,  and 
moving  at  whirlwind  speed  in  a  direction  opposite  to 
their  own. 

Within  the  car  there  was  the  usual  interior  life  of 
the  railroad,  offering  little  to  the  observation  of  other 
passengers,  but  full  of  novelty  for  this  pair  of  strangely 
enfranchised  prisoners.  It  was  novelty  enough,  indeed, 
that  there  were  fifty  human  beings  in  close  relation 
with  them,  under  one  long  and  narrow  roof,  and  drawn 
onward  by  the  same  mighty  influence  that  had  taken 
their  two  selves  into  its  grasp.  It  seemed  marvellous 
how  all  these  people  could  remain  so  quietly  in  their 
seats,  while  so  much  noisy  strength  was  at  work  in 
their  behalf.  Some,  with  tickets  in  their  hats  (long 
travellers  these,  before  whom  lay  a  hundred  miles  of 
railroad),  had  plunged  into  the  English  scenery  and 
adventures  of  pamphlet  novels,  and  were  keeping  com- 
pany  with  dukes  and  earls.  Others,  whose  briefer 
span  forbade  their  devoting  themselves  to  studies  so 
abstruse,  beguiled  the  little  tedium  of  the  way  with 
penny-papers.  A  party  of  girls,  and  one  young  man, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   TWO  OWLS.  30! 

on  opposite  sides  of  the  car,  found  huge  amusement  ii 
a  game  of  ball.  They  tossed  it  to  and  fro,  with  peals 
of  laughter  that  might  be  measured  by  mile-lengths ; 
for,  faster  than  the  nimble  ball  could  fly,  the  merry 
players  fled  unconsciously  along,  leaving  the  trail  of 
their  mirth  afar  behind,  and  ending  their  game  under 
another  sky  than  had  witnessed  its  commencement* 
Boys,  with  apples,  cakes,  candy,  and  rolls  of  variously 
tinctured  lozenges,  —  merchandise  that  reminded  Hep« 
zibahof  her  deserted  shop, — appeared  at  each  momen* 
tary  stopping-place,  doing  up  their  business  in  a  hurry, 
or  breaking  it  short  off,  lest  the  market  should  ravish 
them  away  with  it.  New  people  continually  entered, 
Old  acquaintances  —  for  such  they  soon  grew  to  be, 
in  this  rapid  current  of  affairs  —  continually  departed. 
Here  and  there,  amid  the  rumble  and  the  tumult  sat 
one  asleep.  Sleep  ;  sport ;  business  ;  graver  or  lighter 
study  ;  and  the  common  and  inevitable  movement  on- 
ward !  It  was  life  itself ! 

Clifford's  naturally  poignant  sympathies  were  all 
aroused.  He  caught  the  color  of  what  was  passing 
about  him,  and  threw  it  back  more  vividly  than  he  re- 
ceived it,  but  mixed,  nevertheless,  with  a  lurid  and 
portentous  hue.  Hepzibah,  on  the  other  hand,  felt 
herself  more  apart  from  human  kind  than  even  in  the 
seclusion  which  she  had  just  quitted. 

"  You  are  not  happy,  Hepzibah ! "  said  Clifford, 
apart,  in  a  tone  of  reproach.  "  You  are  thinking  of 
that  dismal  old  house,  and  of  Cousin  Jaffrey,"  —  here 
came  the  quake  through  him,  —  "  and  of  Cousin  Jaf« 
trey  sitting  there,  all  by  himself !  Take  my  advice, 
—  follow  my  example,  —  and  let  such  things  slip 
aside.  Here  we  are,  in  the  world,  Hepzibah !  —  in 
the  midst  of  life  1  —  in  the  throng  of  our  fellow-beings  J 

VOL.  in.  20 


806    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Let  you  and  I  be  happy !  As  happy  as  that  youtly 
and  those  pretty  girls,  at  their  game  of  ball !  " 

"  Happy  !  "  thought  Hepzibah,  bitterly  conscious,  at 
the  word,  of  her  dull  and  heavy  heart,  with  the  frozen 
pain  in  it,  —  "  happy !  He  is  mad  already ;  and,  if  I 
could  once  feel  myself  broad  awake,  I  should  go  mad 
too!" 

If  a  fixed  idea  be  madness,  she  was  perhaps  not  re- 
mote from  it.  Fast  and  far  as  they  had  rattled  and 
clattered  along  the  iron  track,  they  might  just  as  well, 
as  regarded  Hepzibah's  mental  images,  have  been  pass- 
ing up  and  down  Pyncheon  Street.  With  miles  and 
miles  of  varied  scenery  between,  there  was  no  scene 
for  her,  save  the  seven  old  gable-peaks,  with  their 
moss,  and  the  tuft  of  weeds  in  one  of  the  angles,  and 
the  shop-window,  and  a  customer  shaking  the  door,  and 
compelling  the  little  bell  to  jingle  fiercely,  but  without 
disturbing  Judge  Pyncheon  !  This  one  old  house  was 
everywhere  !  It  transported  its  great,  lumbering  bulk 
with  more  than  railroad  speed,  and  set  itself  phleg- 
matically  down  on  whatever  spot  she  glanced  at.  The 
quality  of  Hepzibah's  mind  was  too  unmalleable  to 
take  new  impressions  so  readily  as  Clifford's.  He  had 
a  winged  nature ;  she  was  rather  of  the  vegetable 
kind,  and  could  hardly  be  kept  long  alive,  if  drawn 
up  by  the  roots.  Thus  it  happened  that  the  relation 
heretofore  existing  between  her  brother  and  herself 
was  changed.  At  home,  she  was  his  guardian  ;  here* 
Clifford  had  become  hers,  and  seemed  to  comprehend 
whatever  belonged  to  their  new  position  with  a  sin- 
gular rapidity  of  intelligence.  He  had  been  startled 
into  manhood  and  intellectual  vigor ;  or,  at  least,  into 
a  condition  that  resembled  them,  though  it  might  bi 
both  diseased  and  transitory. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  807 

The  conductor  now  applied  for  their  tickets ;  and 
Clifford,  who  had  made  himself  the  purse-bearer,  put 
a  bank-note  into  his  hand,  as  he  had  observed  others 
do. 

"  For  the  lady  and  yourself  ?  "  asked  the  conductor. 
"  Ajidhowfar?" 

1  "  As  far  as  that  will  carry  us,"  said  Clifford.  "  It 
is  no  great  matter.  We  are  riding  for  pleasure 
merely ! " 

"  You  choose  a  strange  day  for  it,  sir ! "  remarked 
a  gimlet-eyed  old  gentleman,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
car,  looking  at  Clifford  and  his  companion,  as  if  curi- 
ous to  make  them  out.  "The  best  chance  of  pleasure, 
in  an  easterly  rain,  I  take  it,  is  in  a  man's  own  house, 
with  a  nice  little  fire  in  the  chimney." 

"  I  cannot  precisely  agree  with  you,"  said  Clifford, 
courteously  bowing  to  the  old  gentleman,  and  at  once 
taking  up  the  clew  of  conversation  which  the  latter 
had  proffered.  "  It  had  just  occurred  to  me,  on  the 
contrary,  that  this  admirable  invention  of  the  rail- 
road —  with  the  vast  and  inevitable  improvements  to 
be  looked  for,  both  as  to  speed  and  convenience  —  is 
destined  to  do  away  with  those  stale  ideas  of  home  and 
fireside,  and  substitute  something  better." 

"  In  the  name  of  common  -  sense,"  asked  the  old 
gentleman,  rather  testily,  "  what  can  be  better  for  a 
man  than  his  own  parlor  and  chimney-corner  ?  " 

"  These  things  have  not  the  merit  which  many  good 
people  attribute  to  them,"  replied  Clifford.  "They 
may  be  said,  in  few  and  pithy  words,  to  have  ill  served 
a  poor  purpose.  My  impression  is,  that  our  wonder- 
fully increased  and  still  increasing  facilities  of  locomo- 
tion are  destined  to  bring  us  round  again  to  the  no- 
madic state.  You  are  aware,  my  dear  sir,  -  -  you  must 


808    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

have  observed  it  in  your  own  experience,  - —  that  all 
human  progress  is  in  a  circle ;  or,  to  use  a  more  ac- 
curate and  beautiful  figure,  in  an  ascending  spiral 
curve.  While  we  fancy  ourselves  going  straight  for- 
ward, and  attaining,  at  every  step,  an  entirely  new 
position  of  affairs,  we  do  actually  return  to  something 
long  ago  tried  and  abandoned,  but  which  we  now  find 
etherealized,  refined,  and  perfected  to  its  ideal.  The 
past  is  but  a  coarse  and  sensual  prophecy  of  the  pres- 
ent and  the  future.  To  apply  this  truth  to  the  topic 
now  under  discussion.  In  the  early  epochs  of  our 
race,  men  dwelt  in  temporary  huts,  of  bowers  of 
branches,  as  easily  constructed  as  a  bird's-nest,  and 
which  they  built,  —  if  it  should  be  called  building, 
when  such  sweet  homes  of  a  summer  solstice  rather 
grew  than  were  made  with  hands,  —  which  Nature,  we 
will  say,  assisted  them  to  rear  where  fruit  abounded, 
where  fish  and  game  were  plentiful,  or,  most  especially, 
where  the  sense  of  beauty  was  to  be  gratified  by  a  love- 
lier shade  than  elsewhere,  and  a  more  exquisite  ar- 
rangement of  lake,  wood,  and  hill.  This  life  possessed 
a  charm,  which,  ever  since  man  quitted  it,  has  vanished 
from  existence.  And  it  typified  something  better  than 
itself.  It  had  its  drawbacks  ;  such  as  hunger  and 
thirst,  inclement  weather,  hot  sunshine,  and  weary  and 
foot-blistering  marches  over  barren  and  ugly  tracts, 
that  lay  between  the  sites  desirable  for  their  fertility 
and  beauty.  But  in  our  ascending  spiral,  we  escape 
all  this.  These  railroads  —  could  but  the  whistle  be 
made  musical,  and  the  rumble  and  the  jar  got  rid  of 
—  are  positively  the  greatest  blessing  that  the  ages 
have  wrought  out  for  us.  They  give  us  wings  ;  they 
annihilate  the  toil  and  dust  of  pilgrimage  ;  they  spirit- 
ualize travel !  Transition  being  so  facile,  what  can  be 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO   OWLS.  309 

any  man's  inducement  to  tarry  in  one  spot  ?  Why, 
therefore,  should  he  build  a  more  cumbrous  habitation 
than  can  readily  be  carried  off  with  him  ?  Why  should 
he  make  himself  a  prisoner  for  life  in  brick,  and  stone, 
and  old  worm-eaten  timber,  when  he  may  just  as  easily 
dwell,  in  one  sense,  nowhere,  —  in  a  better  sense,  wheiv 
ever  the  fit  and  beautiful  shall  offer  him  a  home  ?  " 

Clifford's  countenance  glowed,  as  he  divulged  this 
theory ;  a  youthful  character  shone  out  from  within, 
converting  the  wrinkles  and  pallid  duskiness  of  age 
into  an  almost  transparent  mask.  The  merry  girls  let 
their  ball  drop  upon  the  floor,  and  gazed  at  him. 
They  said  to  themselves,  perhaps,  that,  before  his  hair 
was  gray  and  the  crow's-feet  tracked  his  temples,  this 
now  decaying  man  must  have  stamped  the  impress  of 
his  features  on  many  a  woman's  heart.  But,  alas !  no 
woman's^  eye  had  seen  his  face  while  it  was  beautiful. 

"  I  should  scarcely  call  it  an  improved  state  of 
things,"  observed  Clifford's  new  acquaintance,  "  to  live 
everywhere  and  nowhere  !  " 

"  Would  you  not  ?  "  exclaimed  Clifford,  with  sin- 
gular energy.  "  It  is  as  clear  to  me  as  sunshine,  — 
were  there  any  in  the  sky,  —  that  the  greatest  possi- 
ble stumbling-blocks  in  the  path  of  human  happiness 
and  improvement  are  these  heaps  of  bricks  and  stones, 
consolidated  with  mortar,  or  hewn  timber,  fastened  to- 
gether with  spike-nails,  which  men  painfully  contrive 
for  their  own  torment,  and  call  them  house  and  home  ! 
The  soul  needs  air  ;  a  wide  sweep  and  frequent  change 
of  it.  Morbid  influences,  in  a  thousand-fold  variety, 
gather  about  hearths,  and  pollute  the  life  of  house- 
holds. There  is  no  such  unwholesome  atmosphere  as 
that  of  an  old  home,  rendered  poisonous  by  one's  de- 
funct forefathers  and  relatives.  I  speak  of  what  I 


810    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

know.  There  is  a  certain  house  within  my  familial 
recollection,  —  one  of  those  peaked-gable  (there  are 
seven  of  them),  projecting-storied  edifices,  such  as  you 
occasionally  see  in  our  older  towns,  —  a  rusty,  crazy, 
creaky,  dry-rotted,  damp-rotted,  dingy,  dark,  and  mis- 
erable old  dungeon,  with  an  arched  window  over  thtf 
porch,  and  a  little  shop-door  on  one  side,  and  a  great, 
melancholy  elm  before  it  !  Now,  sir,  whenever  my 
thoughts  recur  to  this  seven-gabled  mansion  (the  fact 
is  so  very  curious  that  I  must  needs  mention  it),  im- 
mediately I  have  a  vision  or  image  of  an  elderly  man, 
of  remarkably  stern  countenance,  sitting  in  an  oaken 
elbow-chair,  dead,  stone-dead,  with  an  ugly  flow  of 
blood  upon  his  shirt-bosom  1  Dead,  but  with  open 
eyes  !  He  taints  the  whole  house,  as  I  remember  it. 
I  could  never  flourish  there,  nor  be  happy,  nor  do  nor 
enjoy  what  God  meant  me  to  do  and  enjoy  I  " 

His  face  darkened,  and  seemed  to  contract,  and 
shrivel  itself  up,  and  wither  into  age. 

"  Never,  sir !  "  he  repeated.  "  I  could  never  draw 
cheerful  breath  there !  " 

"  I  should  think  not,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  eying 
Clifford  earnestly,  and  rather  apprehensively.  "I 
should  conceive  not,  sir,  with  that  notion  in  your 
head!" 

"Surely  not,"  continued  Clifford;  "and  it  were  a 
relief  to  me  if  that  house  could  be  torn  down,  or  burnt 
up,  and  so  the  earth  be  rid  of  it,  and  grass  be  sown 
abundantly  over  its  foundation.  Not  that  I  should 
ever  visit  its  site  again !  for,  sir,  the  farther  I  get 
away  from  it,  the  more  does  the  joy,  the  lightsome 
freshness,  the  heart-leap,  the  intellectual  dan.^e,  the 
youth,  in  short,  —  yes,  my  youth,  my  youth  !  —  the 
more  does  it  come  back  to  me.  No  longer  ago  than 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  811 

this  morning,  I  was  old.  I  remember  looking  in  the 
glass,  and  wondering  at  my  own  gray  hair,  and  the 
wrinkles,  many  and  deep,  right  across  my  brow,  and 
the  furrows  down  my  cheeks,  and  the  prodigious 
trampling  of  crow's-feet  about .  my  temples  !  It  was 
too  soon  !  I  could  not  bear  it !  Age  had  no  right  to 
comet  I  had  not  lived  !  But  now  do  I  look  old?  If 
so,  my  aspect  belies  me  strangely ;  for  —  a  great 
weight  being  off  my  mind  —  I  feel  in  the  very  heyday 
of  my  youth,  with  the  world  and  my  best  days  before 
me!" 

"  I  trust  you  may  find  it  so,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, who  seemed  rather  embarrassed,  and  desirous  of 
avoiding  the  observation  which  Clifford's  wild  talk 
drew  on  them  both.  "  You  have  my  best  wishes  for 
it." 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  dear  Clifford,  be  quiet !  '* 
whispered  his  sister.  "  They  think  you  mad." 

"  Be  quiet  yourself,  Hepzibah  !  "  returned  her 
brother.  "  No  matter  what  they  think !  I  am  not 
mad.  For  the  first  time  in  thirty  years  my  thoughts 
gush  up  and  find  words  ready  for  them.  I  must  talk, 
and  I  will !  " 

He  turned  again  towards  the  old  gentleman,  and  re- 
newed the  conversation. 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "  it  is  my  firm  belief 
and  hope  that  these  terms  of  roof  and  hearth-stone, 
which  have  so  long  been  held  to  embody  something 
sacred,  are  soon  to  pass  out  of  men's  daily  use,  and  be 
forgotten.  Just  imagine,  for  a  moment,  how  much  of 
human  evil  will  crumble  away,  with  this  one  change ! 
What  we  call  real  estate  —  the  solid  ground  to  build 
a  house  on  —  is  the  broad  foundation  on  which  nearly 
all  the  guilt  of  this  world  rests.  A  man  will  commit 


812    TLE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

almost  any  wrong,  —  he  will  heap  up  an  immense  pil* 
of  wickedness,  as  hard  as  granite,  and  which  will 
weigh  as  heavily  upon  his  soul,  to  eternal  ages,  —  only 
to  build  a  great,  gloomy,  dark-chambered  mansion,  for- 
himself  to  die  in,  and  for  his  posterity  to  be  miserable 
in.  He  lays  his  own  dead  corpse  beneath  the  under- 
pinning,  as  one  may  say,  and  hangs  his  frowning  pict- 
ure on  the  wall,  and,  after  thus  converting  himself  into 
an  evil  destiny,  expects  his  remotest  great-grandchii 
dren  to  be  happy  there  !  I  do  not  speak  wildly.  }. 
have  just  such  a  house  in  my  mind's  eye  !  " 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  getting  anx. 
ious  to  drop  the  subject,  "  you  are  not  to  blame  for 
ieaving  it." 

"  Within  the  lifetime  of  the  child  already  born," 
Clifford  went  on,  "  all  this  will  be  done  away.  The 
world  is  growing  too  ethereal  and  spiritual  to  bear 
these  enormities  a  great  while  longer.  To  me,  — 
though,  for  a  considerable  period  of  time,  I  have  lived 
chiefly  in  retirement,  and  know  less  of  such  things 
than  most  men,  —  even  to  me,  the  harbingers  of  a 
better  era  are  unmistakable.  Mesmerism,  now  !  Will 
that  effect  nothing,  think  you,  towards  purging  away 
the  grossness  out  of  human  life  ?  " 

"  All  a  humbug !  "  growled  the  old  gentleman.  i 

"  These  rapping  spirits,  that  little  Phrebe  told  us  of, 
the  other  day,"  said  Clifford,  —  "  what  are  these  but 
the  messengers  of  the  spiritual  world,  knocking  at  the 
door  of  substance  ?  And  it  shall  be  flung  wide  open! " 

"  A  humbug,  again !  "  cried  the  old  gentleman, 
growing  more  and  more  testy,  at  these  glimpses  of 
Clifford's  metaphysics.  "  I  should  like  to  rap  with  a 
good  stick  on  the  empty  pates  of  the  dolts  who  circu- 
late such  nonsense  1  " 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  318 

"  Then  there  is  electricity,  —  the  demon,  the  angel, 
the  mighty  physical  power,  the  all-pervading  intelli- 
gence !  "  exclaimed  Clifford.  "  Is  that  a  humbug,  too  ? 
Is  it  a  fact  —  or  have  I  dreamt  it  —  that,  by  means  of 
electricity,  the  world  of  matter  has  become  a  great 
nerve,  vibrating  thousands  of  miles  in  a  breathless 
point  of  time?  Rather,  the  round  globe  is  a  vast 
head,  a  brain,  instinct  with  intelligence !  Or,  shall 
we  say,  it  is  itself  a  thought,  nothing  but  thought, 
and  no  longer  the  substance  which  we  deemed  it !  " 

"  If  you  mean  the  telegraph,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, glancing  his  eye  toward  its  wire,  alongside  the 
rail -track,  "it  is  an  excellent  thing, — that  is,  of 
course,  if  the  speculators  in  cotton  and  politics  don't 
get  possession  of  it.  A  great  thing,  indeed,  sir,  par- 
ticularly as  regards  the  detection  of  bank-robbers  anJ 
murderers." 

"  I  don't  quite  like  it,  in  that  point  of  view,"  replied 
Clifford.  "  A  bank-robber,  and  what  you  call  a  mur- 
derer, likewise,  has  his  rights,  which  men  of  enlight- 
ened humanity  and  conscience  should  regard  in  so 
much  the  more  liberal  spirit,  because  the  bulk  of  so- 
ciety is  prone  to  controvert  their  existence.  An  al- 
most spiritual  medium,  like  the  electric  telegraph, 
should  be  consecrated  to  high,  deep,  joyful,  and  holy 
missions.  Lovers,  day  by  day,  —  hour  by  hour,  if  so 
often  moved  to  do  it,  —  might  send  their  heart-throbs 
from  Maine  to  Florida,  with  some  such  words  as  these, 
*  I  love  you  forever  ! '  — '  My  heart  runs  over  with, 
love ! '  —  'I  love  you  more  than  I  can ! '  and,  again,  at 
the  next  message,  '  I  have  lived  an  hour  longer,  and 
love  you  twice  as  much ! '  Or,  when  a  good  man  has 
departed,  his  distant  friend  should  be  conscious  of  an 
electric  thrill,  as  from  the  world  of  happy  spirits,  tell* 


814      THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

ing  him,  '  Your  dear  friend  is  in  bliss  ! '  Or,  to  an 
absent  husband,  should  come  tidings  thus,  '  An  immor- 
tal being,  of  whom  you  are  the  father,  has  this  moment 
come  from  God ! '  and  immediately  its  little  voice 
would  seem  to  have  reached  so  far,  and  to  be  echoing 
in  his  heart.  But  for  these  poor  rogues,  the  bank-rob 
bers,  — who  after  all,  are  about  as  honest  as  nine  peo- 
ple in  ten,  except  that  they  disregard  certain  formali- 
ties, and  prefer  to  transact  business  at  midnight  rather 
than  'Change -hours, — and  for  these  murderers,  as 
you  phrase  it,  who  are  often  excusable  in  the  motives 
of  their  deed,  and  deserve  to  be  ranked  among  public 
benefactors,  if  we  consider  only  its  result,  —  for  unfor- 
tunate individuals  like  these,  I  really  cannot  applaud 
the  enlistment  of  an  immaterial  and  miraculous  power 
in  the  universal  world-hunt  at  their  heels !  " 

"  You  can't,  hey  ?  "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  with  a 
hard  look. 

"Positively,  no!"  answered  Clifford.  "It  puts 
them  too  miserably  at  disadvantage.  For  example, 
sir,  in  a  dark,  low,  cross-beamed,  panelled  room  of  an 
old  house,  let  ns  suppose  a  dead  man,  sitting  in  an 
arm-chair,  with  a  blood -stain  on  his  shirt -bosom, — 
and  let  us  add  to  our  hypothesis  another  man,  issuing 
from  the  house,  which  he  feels  to  be  over-filled  with 
the  dead  man's  presence,  —  and  let  us  lastly  imagine 
him  fleeing,  Heaven  knows  whither,  at  the  speed  of  a 
hurricane,  by  railroad  !  Now,  sir,  if  the  fugitive  alight 
in  some  distant  town,  and  find  all  the  people  babbling 
about  that  self-same  dead  man,  whom  he  has  fled  so 
far  to  avoid  the  sight  and  thought  of,  will  you  not  al- 
low that  his  natural  rights  have  been  infringed  ?  He 
has  been  deprived  of  his  city  of  refuge,  and,  in  my 
humble  opinion,  has  suffered  infinite  wrong !  " 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TWO  OWLS.  315 

"  You  are  a  strange  man,  sir !  "  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, bringing  his  gimlet-eye  to  a  point  on  Clifford,  as 
if  determined  to  bore  right  into  him.  "I  can't  see 
through  you !  " 

"  No,  I  '11  be  bound  you  can't !  "  cried  Clifford, 
laughing.  "  And  yet,  my  dear  sir,  I  am  as  transpar- 
ent as  the  water  of  Maule's  well !  But  come,  Hepzi- 
foah !  We  have  flown  far  enough  for  once.  Let  us 
alight,  as  the  birds  do,  and  perch  ourselves  on  the 
nearest  twig,  and  consult  whither  we  shall  fly  next !  " 

Just  then,  as  it  happened,  the  train  reached  a  soli- 
tary way -station.  Taking  advantage  of  the  brief 
pause,  Clifford  left  the  car,  and  drew  Hepzibah  along 
with  him.  A  moment  afterwards,  the  train  —  with 
all  the  life  of  its  interior,  amid  which  Clifford  had 
made  himself  so  conspicuous  an  object  —  was  gliding 
away  in  the  distance,  and  rapidly  lessening  to  a  point, 
which,  in  another  moment,  vanished.  The  world  had 
fled  away  from  these  two  wanderers.  They  gazed 
drearily  about  them.  At  a  little  distance  stood  a 
wooden  church,  black  with  age,  and  in  a  dismal  state 
of  ruin  and  decay,  with  broken  windows,  a  great  rift 
through  the  main  body  of  the  edifice,  and  a  rafter 
dangling  from  the  top  of  the  square  tower.  Farther 
off  was  a  farm-house,  in  the  old  style,  as  venerably 
black  as  the  church,  with  a  roof  sloping  downward 
from  the  three-story  peak,  to  within  a  man's  height  of 
the  ground.  It  seemed  uninhabited.  There  were  the 
relics  of  a  wood-pile,  indeed,  near  the  door,  but  with 
grass  sprouting  up  among  the  chips  and  scattered  logs. 
The  small  rain-drops  came  down  aslant ;  the  wind  was 
not  turbulent,  but  sullen,  and  full  of  chilly  moisture. 

Clifford  shivered  from  head  to  foot.  The  wild  effer- 
vescence of  his  mood  —  which  had  so  readily  supplied 


316       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN   GABLES. 

thoughts,  fantasies,  and  a  strange  aptitude  of  words, 
and  impelled  him  to  talk  from  the  mere  necessity  of 
giving  vent  to  this  bubbling-up  gush  of  ideas  —  had 
entirely  subsided.  A  powerful  excitement  had  given 
him  energy  and  vivacity.  Its  operation  over,  he  forth- 
with began  to  sink. 

"  You  must  take  the  lead  now,  Hepzibah ! "  mur\ 
inured  he,  with  a  torpid  and  reluctant  utterance.  "  Do 
with  me  as  you  will !  " 

She  knelt  down  upon  the  platform  where  they  were 
standing  and  lifted  her  clasped  hands  to  the  sky.  The 
dull,  gray  weight  of  clouds  made  it  invisible ;  but  it 
was  no  hour  for  disbelief,  —  no  juncture  this  to  ques- 
tion that  there  was  a  sky  above,  and  an  Almighty 
Father  looking  from  it ! 

"  O  God  !  "  —  ejaculated  poor,  gaunt  Hepzibah,  — 
then  paused  a  moment,  to  consider  what  her  prayer 
should  be,  —  "  O  God.  —  our  Father,  —  are  we  no* 
thy  children  ?  Have  mercy  on  ua !  " 


xvm. 

GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON. 

JUDGE  PYNCHEON,  while  his  two  relatives  have  fled 
away  with  such  ill-considered  haste,  still  sits  in  the  old 
parlor,  keeping  house,  as  the  familiar  phrase  is,  in  the 
absence  of  its  ordinary  occupants.  To  him,  and  to 
the  venerable  l?ouse  of  the  Seven  Gables,  does  our 
story  now  betake  itself,  like  an  owl,  bewildered  in  the 
daylight,  and  hastening  back  to  his  hollow  tree. 

The  Judge  has  not  shifted  his  position  for  a  long 
while  now.  He  has  not  stirred  hand  or  foot,  nor 
withdrawn  his  eyes  so  much  as  a  hair's-breadth  from 
their  fixed  gaze  towards  the  corner  of  the  room,  since 
the  footsteps  of  Hepzibah  and  Clifford  creaked  along 
the  passage,  and  the  outer  door  was  closed  cautiously 
behind  their  exit.  He  holds  his  watch  in  his  left 
hand,  but  clutched  in  such  a  manner  that  you  cannot 
see  the  dial-plate.  How  profound  a  fit  of  meditation  ! 
Or,  supposing  him  asleep,  how  infantile  a  quietude  of 
conscience,  and  what  wholesome  order  in  the  gastric 
region,  are  betokened  by  slumber  so  entirely  undis- 
turbed with  starts,  cramp,  twitches,  muttered  dream- 
talk,  trumpet-blasts  through  the  nasal  organ,  or  any  the 
slightest  irregularity  of  breath  !  You  must  hold  your 
own  breath,  to  satisfy  yourself  whether  he  breathes 
at  all.  It  is  quite  inaudible.  You  hear  the  ticking  of 
his  watch ;  his  breath  you  do  not  hear.  A  most  re- 
freshing slumber,  doubtless !  And  yet,  the  Judge  can* 


818  THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

not  be  asleep.  His  eyes  are  open !  A  veteran  poll 
tician,  such  as  he,  would  never  fall  asleep  with  wide- 
open  eyes,  lest  some  enemy  or  mischief-maker,  taking 
him  thus  at  unawares,  should  peep  through  these  win- 
dows into  his  consciousness,  and  make  strange  discov- 
eries among  the  reminiscences,  projects,  hopes,  appre 
hensions,  weaknesses,  and  strong  points,  which  he  has 
heretofore  shared  with  nobody.  A  cautious  man  is 
proverbially  said  to  sleep  with  one  eye  open.  That 
may  be  wisdom.  But  not  with  both ;  for  this  were 
heedlessness !  No,  no !  Judge  Pyncheon  cannot  be 
asleep. 

It  is  odd,  however,  that  a  gentleman  so  burdened 
with  engagements,  —  and  noted,  too,  for  punctuality, 
—  should  linger  thus  in  an  old  lonely  mansion,  which 
he  has  never  seemed  very  fond  of  visiting.  The  oaken 
chair,  to  be  sure,  may  tempt  him  with  its  roominess. 
It  is,  indeed,  a  spacious,  and,  allowing  for  the  rude 
age  that  fashioned  it,  a  moderately  easy  seat,  with  ca- 
pacity enough,  at  all  events,  and  offering  no  restraint 
to  the  Judge's  breadth  of  beam.  A  bigger  man  might 
find  ample  accommodation  in  it.  His  ancestor,  now 
pictured  upon  the  wall,  with  all  his  English  beef  about 
him,  used  hardly  to  present  a  front  extending  from 
elbow  to  elbow  of  this  chair,  or  a  base  that  would 
cover  its  whole  cushion.  But  there  are  better  chairs 
than  this, — mahogany,  black-walnut,  rosewood,  spring- 
seated  and  damask-cushioned,  with  varied  slopes,  and 
innumerable  artifices  to  make  them  easy,  and  obviate 
the  irksomeness  of  too  tame  an  ease,  —  a  score  of 
such  might  be  at  Judge  Pyncheon's  service.  Yes! 
in  a  score  of  drawing-rooms  he  would  be  more  thao 
welcome.  Mamma  would  advance  to  meet  him,  with 
outstretched  hand ;  the  virgin  daughter,  elderly  as  ha 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  319 

has  now  got  to  be,  —  an  old  widower,  as  he  smilingly 
describes  himself,  —  would  shake  up  the  cushion  for 
the  Judge,  and  do  her  pretty  little  utmost  to  make 
him  comfortable.  For  the  Judge  is  a  prosperous 
man.  He  cherishes  his  schemes,  moreover,  like  other 
people,  and  reasonably  brighter  than  most  others  ;  or 
did  so,  at  least,  as  he  lay  abed  this  morning,  in  an 
agreeable  half-drowse,  planning  the  business  of  the 
day,  and  speculating  on  the  probabilities  of  the  next 
fifteen  years.  With  his  firm  health,  and  the  little 
inroad  that  age  has  made  upon  him,  fifteen  years  or 
twenty  —  yes,  or  perhaps  five-and-twenty  !  —  are  no 
more  than  he  may  fairly  call  his  own.  Five-and-twenty 
years  for  the  enjoyment  of  his  real  estate  in  town  and 
country,  his  railroad,  bank,  and  insurance  shares,  his 
United  States  stock,  —  his  wealth,  in  short,  however 
invested,  now  in  possession,  or  soon  to  be  acquired ; 
together  with  the  public  honors  that  have  fallen  upon 
him,  and  the  weightier  ones  that  are  yet  to  fall !  It  is 
good  !  It  is  excellent !  It  is  enough ! 

Still  lingering  in  the  old  chair  !  If  the  Judge  has  a 
little  time  to  throw  away,  why  does  not  he  visit  the  in- 
surance office,  as  is  his  frequent  custom,  and  sit  awhile 
in  one  of  their  leathern-cushioned  arm-chairs,  listening 
to  the  gossip  of  the  day,  and  dropping  some  deeply  de- 
signed chance-word,  which  will  be  certain  to  become 
the  gossip  of  to-morrow !  And  have  not  the  bank  di- 
rectors a  meeting  at  which  it  was  the  Judge's  purpose 
to  be  present,  and  his  office  to  preside  ?  Indeed  they 
have ;  and  the  hour  is  noted  on  a  card,  which  is,  or 
ought  to  be,  in  Judge  Pyncheon's  right  vest-pocket. 
.Let  him  go  thither,  and  loll  at  ease  upon  his  money, 
bags  !  He  has  lounged  long  enough  in  the  old  chair ! 

This  was  to  have  been  such  a  busy  day !     In  the 


820       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

first  place,  the  interview  with  Clifford.  Half  an  hour, 
by  the  Judge's  reckoning,  was  to  suffice  for  that ;  it 
would  probably  be  less,  but  —  taking  into  considera- 
ation  that  Hepzibah  was  first  to  be  dealt  with,  and 
that  these  women  are  apt  to  make  many  words  where 
a  few  would  do  much  better  —  it  might  be  safest  to  al- 
low half  an  hour.  Half  an  hour  ?  Why,  Judge,  it  is 
already  two  hours,  by  your  own  undeviatingly  accurate 
chronometer  !  Glance  your  eye  down  at  it  and  see  ! 
Ah !  he  will  not  give  himself  the  trouble  either  to  bend 
his  head,  or  elevate  his  hand,  so  as  to  bring  the  faith- 
ful time-keeper  within  his  range  of  vision !  Time,  all 
a*  once,  appears  to  have  become  a  matter  of  no  mo- 
ment with  the  Judge ! 

And  has  he  forgotten  all  the  other  items  of  his 
memoranda  ?  Clifford's  affair  arranged,  he  was  to  meet 
a  State  Street  broker,  who  has  undertaken  to  procure 
a  heavy  percentage,  and  the  best  of  paper,  for  a  few 
loose  thousands  which  the  Judge  happens  to  have  by 
him,  uninvested.  The  wrinkled  note-shaver  will  have 
taken  his  railroad  trip  in  vain.  Half  an  hour  later,  in 
the  street  next  to  this,  there  was  to  be  an  auction  of 
real  estate,  including  a  portion  of  the  old  Pyncheon 
property,  originally  belonging  to  Maule's  garden- 
ground.  It  has  been  alienated  from  the  Pyncheons 
these  four-score  years ;  but  the  Judge  had  kept  it  in  his 
eye,  and  had  set  his  heart  on  reannexing  it  to  the  small 
demesne  still  left  around  the  Seven  Gables  ;  and  now, 
during  this  odd  fit  of  oblivion,  the  fatal  hammer  must 
have  fallen,  and  transferred  our  ancient  patrimony  to 
some  alien  possessor  !  Possibly,  indeed,  the  sale  may 
have  been  postponed  till  fairer  weather.  If  so,  will  the 
Judge  make  it  convenient  to  be  present,  and  favor  th« 
auctioneer  with  his  bid,  on  the  proximate  occasion  ? 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  321 

The  next  affair  was  to  buy  a  horse  for  his  own  driv- 
ing. The  one  heretofore  his  favorite  stumbled,  this 
Very  morning,  on  the  road  to  town,  and  must  be  at 
once  discarded.  Judge  Pyncheon's  neck  is  too  pre- 
cious to  be  risked  on  such  a  contingency  as  a  stumbling 
steed.  Should  all  the  above  business  be  seasonably 
got  through  with,  he  might  attend  the  meeting  of  a 
charitable  society ;  the  very  name  of  which,  however, 
in  the  multiplicity  of  his  benevolence,  is  quite  for* 
gotten ;  so  that  this  engagement  may  pass  unfulfilled, 
and  no  great  harm  done.  And  if  he  have  time,  amid 
the  press  of  more  urgent  matters,  he  must  take  meas- 
ures for  the  renewal  of  Mrs.  Pyncheon's  tombstone, 
which,  the  sexton  tells  him,  has  fallen  on  its  marble 
face,  and  is  cracked  quite  in  twain.  She  was  a  praise- 
worthy woman  enough,  thinks  the  Judge,  in  spite  of 
her  nervousness,  and  the  tears  that  she  was  so  oozy 
with,  and  her  foolish  behavior  about  the  coffee ;  and 
as  she  took  her  departure  so  seasonably,  he  will  not 
grudge  the  second  tombstone.  It  is  better,  at  least, 
than  if  she  had  never  needed  any  I  The  next  item  on 
his  list  was  to  give  orders  for  some  fruit-trees,  of  a 
rare  variety,  to  be  deliverable  at  his  country-seat,  in 
the  ensuing  autumn.  Yes,  buy  them,  by  all  means ; 
and  may  the  peaches  be  luscious  in  your  mouth,  Judge 
Pyncheon !  After  this  comes  something  more  im- 
portant. A  committee  of  his  political  party  has  be- 
sought him  for  a  hundred  or  two  of  dollars,  in  addition 
to  his  previous  disbursements,  towards  carrying  on  the 
fall  campaign.  The  Judge  is  a  patriot ;  the  fate  of 
the  country  is  staked  on  the  November  election ;  and 
besides,  as  will  be  shadowed  forth  in  another  para- 
graph, he  has  no  trifling  stake  of  his  own  in  the  same 
great  game.  He  will  do  what  the  committee  asksi 

VOL  ill.  81 


822    THE  HOUSE   OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

nay,  he  will  be  liberal  beyond  their  expectations  ;  thej 
shall  have  a  check  for  five  hundred  dollars,  and  more 
anon,  if  it  be  needed.  What  next?  A  decayed 
widow,  whose  husband  was  Judge  Pyncheon's  early 
friend,  has  laid  her  case  of  destitution  before  him,  in 
a  very  moving  letter.  She  and  her  fair  daughter  have 
scarcely  bread  to  eat.  He  partly  intends  to  call  on 
her,  to-day,  —  perhaps  so  —  perhaps  not,  —  accord^ 
ingly  as  he  may  happen  to  have  leisure,  and  a  small 
bank-note. 

Another  business,  which,  however,  he  puts  no  great 
weight  on  (it  is  well,  you  know,  to  be  heedful,  but  not 
over-anxious,  as  respects  one's  personal  health), — 
another  business,  then,  was  to  consult  his  family  phy- 
sician. About  what,  for  Heaven's  sake  ?  Why,  it  is 
rather  difficult  to  describe  the  symptoms.  A  mere 
dimness  of  sight  and  dizziness  of  brain,  was  it  ?  —  or  a 
disagreeable  choking,  or  stifling,  or  gurgling,  or  bub- 
bling, in  the  region  of  the  thorax,  as  the  anatomists 
gay  ?  —  or  was  it  a  pretty  severe  throbbing  and  kick- 
ing of  the  heart,  rather  creditable  to  him  than  other- 
wise, as  showing  that  the  organ  had  not  been  left  out 
of  the  Judge's  physical  contrivance  ?  No  matter  what 
it  was.  The  doctor,  probably,  would  smile  at  the 
statement  of  such  trifles  to  his  professional  ear;  the 
Judge  would  smile  in  his  turn ;  and  meeting  one 
another's  eyes,  they  would  enjoy  a  hearty  laugh  to- 
gether! But  a  fig  for  medical  advice!  The  Judge 
will  never  need  it. 

Pray,  pray,  Judge  Pyncheon,  look  at  your  watch, 
oow !  What  —  not  a  glance !  It  is  within  ten  min- 
ntes  of  the  dinner-hour!  It  surely  cannot  have 
slipped  your  memory  that  the  dinner  of  to-day  is  to  be 
the  most  important,  in  its  consequences,  of  all  the  din- 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  323 

ners  you  ever  ate.  Yes,  precisely  the  most  important ; 
although,  in  the  course  of  your  somewhat  eminent 
career,  you  have  been  placed  high  towards  the  head  of 
the  table,  at  splendid  banquets,  and  have  poured  out 
your  festive  eloquence  to  ears  yet  echoing  with  Web- 
ster's mighty  organ -tones.  No  public  dinner  thiss 
however.  It  is  merely  a  gathering  of  some  dozen  or 
so  of  friends  from  several  districts  of  the  State ;  men 
of  distinguished  character  and  influence,  assembling, 
almost  casually,  at  the  house  of  a  common  friend,  like- 
wise distinguished,  who  will  make  them  welcome  to  a 
little  better  than  his  ordinary  fare.  Nothing  in  the 
way  of  French  cookery,  but  an  excellent  dinner  never- 
theless. Real  turtle,  we  understand,  and  salmon,  tau- 
tog,  canvas-backs,  pig,  English  mutton,  good  roast- 
beef,  or  dainties  of  that  serious  kind,  fit  for  substantial 
country  gentlemen,  as  these  honorable  persons  mostly 
are.  The  delicacies  of  the  season,  in  short,  and  fla- 
vored by  a  brand  of  old  Madeira  which  has  been  the 
pride  of  many  seasons.  It  is  the  Juno  brand ;  a  glo- 
rious wine,  fragrant,  and  full  of  gentle  might ;  a  bot- 
tled-up  happiness,  put  by  for  use;  a  golden  liquid, 
worth  more  than  liquid  gold ;  so  rare  and  admirable, 
that  veteran  wine-bibbers  count  it  among  their  epochs 
to  have  tasted  it !  It  drives  away  the  heart-ache,  and 
substitutes  no  head-ache !  Could  the  Judge  but  quaff 
a  glass,  it  might  enable  him  to  shake  off  the  unac- 
countable lethargy  which  (for  the  ten  intervening  min. 
utes,  and  five  to  boot,  are  already  past)  has  made  him 
such  a  laggard  at  this  momentous  dinner.  It  would 
all  but  revive  a  dead  man !  Would  you  like  to  sip  it 
now,  Judge  Pyncheon  ? 

Alas,  this  dinner !     Have  you  really  forgotten  its 
true  object?    Then  let  us  whisper  it,  that  you  may 


324      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

start  at  once  out  of  the  oaken  chair,  which  realty 
seems  to  be  enchanted,  like  the  one  in  Comus,  or  that 
in  which  Moll  Pitcher  imprisoned  your  own  grand- 
father. But  ambition  is  a  talisman  more  powerful 
than  witchcraft.  Start  up,  then,  and,  hurrying  through 
the  streets,  burst  in  upon  the  company,  that  they  may 
begin  before  the  fish  is  spoiled !  They  wait  for  you : 
and  it  is  little  for  your  interest  that  they  should  wait, 
These  gentlemen  —  need  you  be  told  it? — have  as- 
sembled, not  without  purpose,  from  every  quarter  of 
the  State.  They  are  practised  politicians,  every  man 
of  them,  and  skilled  to  adjust  those  preliminary 
measures  which  steal  from  the  people,  without  its 
knowledge,  the  power  of  choosing  its  own  rulers.  The 
popular  voice,  at  the  next  gubernatorial  election, 
though  loud  as  thunder,  will  be  really  but  an  echo  of 
what  these  gentlemen  shall  speak,  under  their  breath, 
at  your  friend's  festive  board.  They  meet  to  decide 
upon  their  candidate.  This  little  knot  of  subtle 
schemers  will  control  the  convention,  and,  through  it, 
dictate  to  the  party.  And  what  worthier  candidate, 
—  more  wise  and  learned,  more  noted  for  philan- 
thropic liberality,  truer  to  safe  principles,  tried  of tener 
by  public  trusts,  more  spotless  in  private  character, 
with  a  larger  stake  in  the  common  welfare,  and  deeper 
grounded,  by  hereditary  descent,  in  the  faith  and  prac- 
tice of  the  Puritans,  —  what  man  can  be  presented  for 
the  suffrage  of  the  people,  so  eminently  combining  all 
these  claims  to  the  chief-rulership  as  Judge  Pyncheoo 
here  before  us  ? 

Make  haste,  then !  Do  your  part !  The  meed  f 01 
which  you  have  toiled,  and  fought,  and  climbed,  and 
crept,  is  ready  for  your  grasp !  Be  present  at  this 
dinner !  —  drink  a  glass  or  two  of  that  noble  wine !  — 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  325 

make  your  pledges  in  as  low  a  whisper  as  you  will !  — 
and  you  rise  up  from  table  virtually  governor  of  the 
glorious  old  State !  Governor  Pyncheon  of  Massachu- 
setts ! 

And  is  there  no  potent  and  exhilarating  cordial  in 
a  certainty  like  this  ?  It  has  been  the  grand  purpose 
of  half  your  lifetime  to  obtain  it.  Now,  when  there 
needs  little  more  than  to  signify  your  acceptance,  why 
do  you  sit  so  lumpishly  in  your  great-great-grand- 
father's oaken  chair,  as  if  preferring  it  to  the  guber- 
natorial one  ?  We  have  all  heard  of  King  Log ;  but, 
in  these  jostling  times,  one  of  that  royal  kindred  will 
hardly  win  the  race  for  an  elective  chief-magistracy. 

Well !  it  is  absolutely  too  late  for  dinner !  Turtle, 
salmon,  tautog,  woodcock,  boiled  turkey,  South-Down 
mutton,  pig,  roast-beef,  have  vanished,  or  exist  only 
in  fragments,  with  lukewarm  potatoes,  and  gravies 
crusted  over  with  cold  fat.  The  Judge,  had  he  done 
nothing  else,  would  have  achieved  wonders  with  his 
knife  and  fork.  It  was  he,  you  know,  of  whom  it 
used  to  be  said,  in  reference  to  his  ogre-like  appetite, 
that  his  Creator  made  him  a  great  animal,  but  that 
the  dinner-hour  made  him  a  great  beast.  Persons 
of  his  large  sensual  endowments  must  claim  indul- 
gence, at  their  feeding-time.  But,  for  once,  the  Judge 
is  entirely  too  late  for  dinner !  Too  late,  we  fear,  even 
to  join  the  party  at  their  wine !  The  guests  are  warm 
and  merry ;  they  have  given  up  the  Judge ;  and,  con- 
cluding that  the  Free-Soilers  have  him,  they  will  fix 
upon  another  candidate.  Were  our  friend  now  to 
stalk  in  among  them,  with  that  wide-open  stare,  at 
once  wild  and  stolid,  his  uugenial  presence  would  be 
apt  to  change  their  cheer.  Neither  would  it  be  seemly 
in  Judge  Pyncheon,  generally  so  scrupulous  in  hia 


826       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

attire,  to  show  himself  at  a  dinner  -  table  with  that 
crimson  stain  upon  his  shirt-bosom.  By  the  by,  how 
came  it  there  ?  It  is  an  ugly  sight,  at  any  rate  ;  and 
the  wisest  way  for  the  Judge  is  to  button  his  coat 
closely  over  his  breast,  and,  taking  his  horse  and 
chaise  from  the  livery-stable,  to  make  all  speed  to 
his  own  house.  There,  after  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
water,  and  a  mutton-chop,  a  beefsteak,  a  broiled  fowl, 
or  some  such  hasty  little  dinner  and  supper  all  in  one, 
lie  had  better  spend  the  evening  by  the  fireside.  He 
must  toast  his  slippers  a  long  while,  in  order  to  get 
rid  of  the  chilliness  which  the  air  of  this  vile  old  house 
has  sent  curdling  through  his  veins. 

Up,  therefore,  Judge  Pyncheon,  up !  You  have  lost 
a  day.  But  to-morrow  will  be  here  anon.  Will  you 
rise,  betimes,  and  make  the  most  of  it  ?  To-morrow ! 
To-morrow !  To-morrow  !  We,  that  are  alive,  may 
rise  betimes  to-morrow.  As  for  him  that  has  died  to- 
day, his  morrow  will  be  the  resurrection  morn. 

Meanwhile  the  twilight  is  glooming  upward  out  of 
the  corners  of  the  room.  The  shadows  of  the  tall  fur- 
niture grow  deeper,  and  at  first  become  more  definite ; 
then,  spreading  wider,  they  lose  their  distinctness  of 
outline  in  the  dark  gray  tide  of  oblivion,  as  it  were, 
that  creeps  slowly  over  the  various  objects,  and  the 
one  human  figure  sitting  in  the  midst  of  them.  The 
gloom  has  not  entered  from  without ;  it  has  brooded 
here  all  day,  and  now,  taking  its  own  inevitable  tune, 
will  possess  itself  of  everything.  The  Judge's  face, 
indeed,  rigid,  and  singularly  white,  refuses  to  melt  into 
this  universal  solvent.  Fainter  and  fainter  grows  the 
light.  It  is  as  if  another  double-handful  of  darkness 
had  been  scattered  through  the  air.  Now  it  is  no 
onger  gray,  but  sable.  There  is  still  a  faint  appear 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  327 

ance  at  the  window ;  neither  a  glow,  nor  a  gleam,  nor 
a  glimmer,  —  any  phrase  of  light  would  express  some- 
thing far  brighter  than  this  doubtful  perception,  or 
sense,  rather,  that  there  is  a  window  there.  Has  it 
yet  vanished  ?  No  !  —  yes  !  —  not  quite  !  And  there 
is  still  the  swarthy  whiteness,  —  we  shall  venture  tc 
marry  these  ill-agreeing  words,  —  the  swarthy  white- 
ness of  Judge  Pyncheon's  face.  The  features  are  all 
gone :  there  is  only  the  paleness  of  them  left.  And 
how  looks  it  now  ?  There  is  no  window  !  There  is 
no  face  !  An  infinite,  inscrutable  blackness  has  anni- 
hilated sight !  Where  is  our  universe  ?  All  crumbled 
away  from  us  ;  and  we,  adrift  in  chaos,  may  hearken 
to  the  gusts  of  homeless  wind,  that  go  sighing  and 
murmuring  about,  in  quest  of  what  was  once  a  world  ! 

Is  there  no  other  sound  ?  One  other,  and  a  fearful 
one.  It  is  the  ticking  of  the  Judge's  watch,  which, 
ever  since  Hepzibah  left  the  room  in  search  of  Clif- 
ford, he  has  been  holding  in  his  hand.  Be  the  cause 
what  it  may,  this  little,  quiet,  never-ceasing  throb  of 
Tune's  pulse,  repeating  its  small  strokes  with  such 
busy  regularity,  in  Judge  Pyncheon's  motionless  hand, 
has  an  effect  of  terror,  which  we  do  not  find  in  any 
other  accompaniment  of  the  scene. 

But,  listen !  That  puff  of  the  breeze  was  louder ;  it 
had  a  tone  unlike  the  dreary  and  sullen  one  which  has 
bemoaned  itself,  and  afflicted  all  mankind  with  mis- 
erable sympathy,  for  five  days  past.  The  wind  has 
Veered  about !  It  now  comes  boisterously  from  the 
northwest,  and,  taking  hold  of  the  aged  framework  of 
the  Seven  Gables,  gives  it  a  shake,  like  a  wrestler 
that  would  try  strength  with  his  antagonist.  Another 
and  another  sturdy  tussle  with  the  blast !  The  old 
bouse  creaks  again,  and  makes  a  vociferous  but  some* 


328      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

what  unintelligible  bellowing  in  its  sooty  throat  (the 
big  flue,  we  mean,  of  its  wide  chimney),  partly  in 
complaint  at  the  rude  wind,  but  rather,  as  befits  their 
century  and  a  half  of  hostile  intimacy,  in  tough  defi- 
ance. A  rumbling  kind  of  a  bluster  roars  behind  the 
fire-board.  A  door  has  slammed  above  stairs.  A  win- 
dow, perhaps,  has  been  left  open,  or  else  is  driven  in 
by  an  unruly  gust.  It  is  not  to  be  conceived,  before- 
hand, what  wonderful  wind-instruments  are  these  old 
timber  mansions,  and  how  haunted  with  the  strangest 
noises,  which  immediately  begin  to  sing,  and  sigh,  and 
gob,  and  shriek,  —  and  to  smite  with  sledge-hammers, 
airy  but  ponderous,  in  some  distant  chamber,  —  and 
to  tread  along  the  entries  as  with  stately  footsteps,  and 
rustle  up  and  down  the  staircase,  as  with  silks  mirac- 
ulously stiff,  —  whenever  the  gale  catches  the  house 
with  a  window  open,  and  gets  fairly  into  it.  Would 
that  we  were  not  an  attendant  spirit  here  !  It  is  too 
awful !  This  clamor  of  the  wind  through  the  lonely 
house  ;  the  Judge's  quietude,  as  he  sits  invisible  ;  and 
that  pertinacious  ticking  of  his  watch  ! 

As  regards  Judge  Pyncheon's  invisibility,  however, 
that  matter  will  soon  be  remedied.  The  northwest 
wind  has  swept  the  sky  clear.  The  window  is  dis- 
tinctly seen.  Through  its  panes,  moreover,  we  dimly 
catch  the  sweep  of  the  dark,  clustering  foliage,  out- 
side, fluttering  with  a  constant  irregularity  of  move- 
ment, and  letting  in  a  peep  of  starlight,  now  here, 
now  there.  Oftener  than  any  other  object,  these 
glimpses  illuminate  the  Judge's  face.  But  here  comes 
more  effectual  light.  Observe  that  silvery  dance  upon 
the  upper  branches  of  the  pear-tree,  and  now  a  little 
lower,  and  now  on  the  whole  mass  of  boughs,  while, 
through  their  shifting  intricacies,  the  moonbeams  fall 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON:  329 

aslant  into  the  room.  They  play  over  the  Judge's 
figure  and  show  that  he  has  not  stirred  throughout 
the  hours  of  darkness.  They  follow  the  shadows,  in 
changeful  sport,  across  his  unchanging  features.  They 
gleam  upon  his  watch.  His  grasp  conceals  the  dial- 
plate  ;  but  we  know  that  the  faithful  hands  have  metj 
for  one  of  the  city  clocks  tells  midnight. 

A  man  of  sturdy  understanding,  like  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon,  cares  no  more  for  twelve  o'clock  at  night 
than  for  the  corresponding  hour  of  noon.  However 
just  the  parallel  drawn,  in  some  of  the  preceding 
pages,  between  his  Puritan  ancestor  and  himself,  it 
fails  in  this  point.  The  Pyncheon  of  two  centuries 
ago,  in  common  with  most  of  his  contemporaries,  pro- 
fessed his  full  belief  in  spiritual  ministrations,  al- 
though reckoning  them  chiefly  of  a  malignant  char- 
acter. The  Pyncheon  of  to-night,  who  sits  in  yonder 
arm-chair,  believes  in  no  such  nonsense.  Such,  at 
least,  was  his  creed,  some  few  hours  since.  His  hair 
will  not  bristle,  therefore,  at  the  stories  which  —  in 
times  when  chimney  -  corners  had  benches  in  them, 
where  old  people  sat  poking  into  the  ashes  of  the  past, 
and  raking  out  traditions  like  live  coals  —  used  to  be 
told  about  this  very  room  of  his  ancestral  house.  In 
fact,  these  tales  are  too  absurd  to  bristle  even  child- 
hood's hair.  What  sense,  meaning,  or  moral,  for  ex- 
Ample,  such  as  even  ghost-stories  should  be  suscepti- 
ble of,  can  be  traced  in  the  ridiculous  legend,  that,  at 
midnight,  all  the  dead  Pyncheons  are  bound  to  assem- 
ble in  this  parlor  ?  And,  pray,  for  what  ?  Why,  to 
see  whether  the  portrait  of  their  ancestor  still  keeps 
its  place  upon  the  wall,  in  compliance  with  his  testa- 
mentary directions  !  Is  it  worth  while  to  come  out  of 
their  graves  for  that  ? 


830    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

We  are  tempted  to  make  a  little  sport  with  the  idea 
Ghost-stories  are  hardly  to  be  treated  seriously,  any 
longer.  The  family-party  of  the  defunct  Pyncheons, 
we  presume,  goes  off  in  this  wise. 

First  comes  the  ancestor  himself,  in  his  black  cloak 
steeple-hat,  and  trunk-breeches,  girt  about  the  v:aist 
with  a  leathern  belt,  in  which  hangs  his  steel-hiltec 
sword  ;  he  has  a  long  staff  in  his  hand,  such  as  gentle 
men  in  advanced  life  used  to  carry,  as  much  for  the 
dignity  of  the  filing  as  for  the  support  to  be  derived 
from  it.  He  looks  up  at  the  portrait ;  a  thing  of  no 
substance,  gazing  at  its  own  painted  image  !  All  is 
safe.  The  picture  is  still  there.  The  purpose  of  his 
brain  has  been  kept  sacred  thus  long  after  the  man 
himself  has  sprouted  up  in  graveyard  grass.  See !  he 
lifts  his  ineffectual  hand,  and  tries  the  frame.  All 
safe !  But  is  that  a  smile  ?  —  is  it  not,  rather,  a 
frown  of  deadly  import,  that  darkens  over  the  shadow 
of  his  features  ?  The  stout  Colonel  is  dissatisfied ! 
So  decided  is  his  look  of  discontent  as  to  impart  ad- 
ditional distinctness  to  his  features  ;  through  which, 
nevertheless,  the  moonlight  passes,  and  flickers  on  the 
wall  beyond.  Something  has  strangely  vexed  the  ances- 
tor !  With  a  grim  shake  of  the  head,  he  turns  away. 
Here  come  other  Pyncheons,  the  whole  tribe,  in  their 
half  a  dozen  generations,  jostling  and  elbowing  one  an- 
other, to  reach  the  picture.  We  behold  aged  men  and 
grandames,  a  clergyman  with  the  Puritanic  stiffness 
still  in  his  garb  and  mien,  and  a  red-coated  officer  of 
the  old  French  war  ;  and  there  comes  the  shop-keeping 
Pyncheon  of  a  century  ago,  with  the  ruffles  turned 
back  from  his  wrists  ;  and  there  the  periwigged  and 
brocaded  gentleman  of  the  artist's  legend,  with  the 
beautiful  and  pensive  Alice,  who  brings  no  pride  out 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  331 

of  her  virgin  grave.  All  try  the  picture-frame.  What 
do  these  ghostly  people  seek?  A  mother  lifts  her 
ahild,  that  his  little  hands  may  touch  it !  There  is 
evidently  a  mystery  about  the  picture,  that  perplexes 
these  poor  Pyncheons  when  they  ought  to  be  at  rest. 
In  a  corner,  meanwhile,  stands  the  figure  of  an  elderly 
jaan,  in  a  leather  jerkin  and  breeches,  with  a  carpen- 
ter's rule  sticking  out  of  his  side  pocket ;  he  points  his 
finger  at  the  bearded  Colonel  and  his  descendants, 
nodding,  jeering,  mocking,  and  finally  bursting  into 
obstreperous,  though  inaudible  laughter. 

Indulging  our  fancy  in  this  freak,  we  have  partly 
lost  the  power  of  restraint  and  guidance.  We  distin- 
guish an  unlooked-for  figure  in  our  visionary  scene. 
Among  those  ancestral  people  there  is  a  young  man, 
dressed  in  the  very  fashion  of  to-day :  he  wears  a  dark 
frock-coat,  almost  destitute  of  skirts,  gray  pantaloons, 
gaiter  boots  of  patent  leather,  and  has  a  finely  wrought- 
gold  chain  across  his  breast,  and  a  little  silver-headed 
whalebone  stick  in  his  hand.  Were  we  to  meet  this 
figure  at  noonday,  we  should  greet  him  as  young  Jaf- 
frey  Pyncheon,  the  Judge's  only  surviving  child,  who 
has  been  spending  the  last  two  years  in  foreign  travel. 
If  still  in  life,  how  comes  his  shadow  hither  ?  If  dead, 
what  a  misfortune !  The  old  Pyncheon  property,  to- 
gether with  the  great  estate  acquired  by  the  young 
man's  father,  would  devolve  on  whom?  On  poor, 
foolish  Clifford,  gaunt  Hepzibah,  and  rustic  little 
Phosbe !  But  another  and  a  greater  marvel  greets 
us  !  Can  we  believe  our  eyes  ?  A  stout,  elderly  gen- 
tleman has  made  his  appearance  ;  he  has  an  aspect  of 
eminent  respectability,  wears  a  black  coat  and  panta- 
loons, of  roomy  width,  and  might  be  pronounced  scru- 
pulously neat  in  his  attire,  but  for  a  broad  crimson 


832     THE  HOUSE  OF   THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

stain  across  his  snowy  neckcloth  and  down  his  shirt* 
bosom.  Is  it  the  Judge,  or  no  ?  How  can  it  be  Judge 
Pyncheon  ?  We  discern  his  figure,  as  plainly  as  the 
flickering  moonbeams  can  show  us  anything,  still  seated 
in  the  oaken  chair !  Be  the  apparition  whose  it  may, 
it  advances  to  the  picture,  seems  to  seize  the  frame, 
tries  to  peep  behind  it,  and  turns  away,  with  a  frown 
as  black  as  the  ancestral  one. 

The  fantastic  scene  just  hinted  at  must  by  no  means 
be  considered  as  forming  an  actual  portion  of  our  story. 
We  were  betrayed  into  this  brief  extravagance  by  the 
quiver  of  the  moonbeams  ;  they  dance  hand  -  in  -  hand 
with  shadows,  and  are  reflected  in  the  looking-glass, 
which,  you  are  aware,  is  always  a  kind  of  window  or 
doorway  into  the  spiritual  world.  We  needed  relief, 
moreover,  from  our  too  long  and  exclusive  contempla- 
tion pf  that  figure  in  the  chair.  This  wild  wind,  too, 
has  tossed  our  thoughts  into  strange  confusion,  but 
without  tearing  them  away  from  their  one  determined 
centre.  Yonder  leaden  Judge  sits  immovably  upon 
our  soul.  Will  he  never  stir  again?  We  shall  go 
inad  unless  he  stirs  !  You  may  the  better  estimate  his 
quietude  by  the  fearlessness  of  a  little  mouse,  which 
sits  on  its  hind  legs,  in  a  streak  of  moonlight,  close  by 
Judge  Pyncheon's  foot,  and  seems  to  meditate  a  jour- 
ney of  exploration  over  this  great  black  bulk.  Ha ! 
what  has  startled  the  nimble  little  mouse?  It  is  the 
visage  of  grimalkin,  outside  of  the  window,  where  he 
appears  to  have  posted  himself  for  a  deliberate  watch. 
This  grimalkin  has  a  very  ugly  look.  Is  it  a  cat  watch- 
ing for  a  mouse,  or  the  devil  for  a  human  soul?  Would 
we  could  scare  him  from  the  window ! 

Thank  Heaven,  the  night  is  wellnigh  past  I     The 
moonbeams  have  no  longer  so  silvery  a  gleam,  nor 


GOVERNOR  PYNCHEON.  333 

contrast  so  strongly  with  the  blackness  of  the  shadows 
among  which  they  fall.  They  are  paler,  now ;  the 
shadows  look  gray,  not  black.  The  boisterous  wind  is 
hushed.  What  is  the  hour  ?  Ah !  the  watch  has  at 
last  ceased  to  tick ;  for  the  Judge's  forgetful  fingers 
neglected  to  wind  it  up,  as  usual,  at  ten  o'clock,  being 
half  an  hour  or  so  before  his  ordinary  bedtime,  —  and 
it  has  run  down,  for  the  first  tune  in  five  years.  But 
the  great  world-clock  of  Time  still  keeps  its  beat.  The 
dreary  night  —  for,  oh,  how  dreary  seems  its  haunted 
waste,  behind  us  !  —  gives  place  to  a  fresh,  transparent 
cloudless  morn.  Blessed,  blessed  radiance  !  The  day- 
beam  —  even  what  little  of  it  finds  its  way  into  this 
always  dusky  parlor  —  seems  part  of  the  universal 
benediction,  annulling  evil,  and  rendering  all  goodness 
possible,  and  happiness  attainable.  Will  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon  now  rise  up  from  his  chair  ?  Will  he  go  forth, 
and  receive  the  early  sunbeams  on  his  brow  ?  Will 
he  begin  this  new  day,  —  which  God  has  smiled  upon, 
and  blessed,  and  given  to  mankind,  —  will  he  begin 
it  with  better  purposes  than  the  many  that  have  been 
spent  amiss  ?  Or  are  all  the  deep-laid  schemes  of  yes- 
terday as  stubborn  in  his  heart,  and  as  busy  in  his 
brain,  as  ever  ? 

In  this  latter  case,  there  is  much  to  do.  Will  the 
Judge  still  insist  with  Hepzibah  on  the  interview  with 
Clifford  ?  Will  he  buy  a  safe,  elderly  gentleman's 
horse  ?  Will  he  persuade  the  purchaser  of  the  old 
Pyncheon  property  to  relinquish  the  bargain,  in  his 
favor  ?  Will  he  see  his  family  physician,  and  obtain 
a  medicine  that  shall  preserve  him,  to  be  an  honor  and 
blessing  to  his  race,  until  the  utmost  term  of  patri- 
archal longevity?  Will  Judge  Pyncheon,  above  all, 
make  due  apologies  to  that  company  of  honorable 


334    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

friends,  and  satisfy  them  that  his  absence  from  the 
festive  board  was  unavoidable,  and  so  fully  retrieve 
himself  in  their  good  opinion  that  he  shall  yet  be  Gov- 
ernor of  Massachusetts  ?  And  all  these  great  purposes 
accomplished,  will  he  walk  the  streets  again,  with  that 
dog-day  smile  of  elaborate  benevolence,  sultry  enough 
to  tempt  flies  to  come  and  buzz  in  it  ?  Or  will  he9 
after  the  tomb-like  seclusion  of  the  past  day  and  nightj 
go  forth  a  humbled  and  repentant  man,  sorrowful, 
gentle,  seeking  no  profit,  shrinking  from  worldly  honor, 
hardly  daring  to  love  God,  but  bold  to  love  his  fellow- 
man,  and  to  do  him  what  good  he  may  ?  Will  he  bear 
about  with  him,  —  no  odious  grin  of  feigned  benig- 
nity, insolent  in  its  pretence,  and  loathsome  in  its  false- 
hood, —  but  the  tender  sadness  of  a  contrite  heart, 
broken,  at  last,  beneath  its  own  weight  of  sin?  For  it 
is  our  belief,  whatever  show  of  honor  he  may  have 
piled  upon  it,  that  there  was  heavy  sin  at  the  base  of 
this  man's  being. 

Rise  up,  Judge  Pyncheon  !  The  morning  sunshine 
glimmers  through  the  foliage,  and,  beautiful  and  holy 
as  it  is,  shuns  not  to  kindle  up  your  face.  Rise  up, 
thou  subtle,  worldly,  selfish,  iron-hearted  hypocrite, 
and  make  thy  choice  whether  still  to  be  subtle,  worldly, 
selfish,  iron-hearted,  and  hypocritical,  or  to  tear  these 
sins  out  of  thy  nature,  though  they  bring  the  life 
blood  with  them !  The  Avenger  is  upon  thee !  Rise 
up,  before  it  be  too  late  ! 

What!  Thou  art  not  stirred  by  this  last  appeal? 
No,  not  a  jot !  And  there  we  see  a  fly,  —  one  of  your 
common  house-flies,  such  as  are  always  buzzing  on  the 
window-pane,  —  which  has  smelt  out  Governor  Pyn- 
cheon,  and  alights,  now  on  his  forehead,  now  on  his 
chin,  and  now,  Heaven  help  us  !  is  creeping  over  the 


GOVERNOR   PYNCHEON.  335 

bridge  of  his  nose,  towards  the  would-be  chief-magis- 
trate's wide-open  eyes  !  Canst  thou  not  brush  the  fly 
away  ?  Art  thou  too  sluggish  ?  Thou  man,  that  hadst 
so  many  busy  projects  yesterday !  Art  thou  too  weak, 
that  wast  so  powerful  ?  Not  brush  away  a  fly  ?  Nay, 
then,  we  give  thee  up  ! 

And  hark!  the  shop-bell  rings.  After  hours  like 
these  latter  ones,  through  which  we  have  borne  our 
heavy  tale,  it  is  good  to  be  made  sensible  that  there  is 
a  living  world,  and  that  even  this  old,  lonely  mansion 
retains  some  manner  of  connection  with  it.  We  breathe 
more  freely,  emerging  from  Judge  Pyncheon's  pres- 
ence into  the  street  before  the  Seven  Gables. 


XIX. 

ALICE'S  POSIES. 

UNCLE  VENNER,  trundling  a  wheelbarrow,  was  the 
earliest  person  stirring  in  the  neighborhood  the  day 
after  the  storm. 

Pyncheon  Street,  in  front  of  the  House  of  the  Seven 
Gables,  was  a  far  pleasanter  scene  than  a  by-lane,  con- 
fined by  shabby  fences,  and  bordered  with  wooden 
dwellings  of  the  meaner  class,  could  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected to  present.  Nature  made  sweet  amends,  that 
morning,  for  the  five  unkindly  days  which  had  pre- 
ceded it.  It  would  have  been  enough  to  live  for, 
merely  to  look  up  at  the  wide  benediction  of  the  sky,  or 
as  much  of  it  as  was  visible  between  the  houses,  genial 
once  more  with  sunshine.  Every  object  was  agreeable, 
whether  to  be  gazed  at  in  the  breadth,  or  examined 
more  minutely.  Such,  for  example,  were  the  well- 
washed  pebbles  and  gravel  of  the  sidewalk ;  even  the 
sky-reflecting  pools  in  the  centre  of  the  street ;  and  the 
grass,  now  freshly  verdant,  that  crept  along  the  ba-^e 
of  the  fences,  on  the  other  side  of  which,  if  one  peeped 
over,  was  seen  the  multifarious  growth  of  gardens. 
Vegetable  productions,  of  whatever  kind,  seemed  more 
than  negatively  happy,  in  the  juicy  warmth  and  abun- 
dance of  their  life.  The  Pyncheon  Elm,  throughout 
its  great  circumference,  was  all  alive,  and  full  of  the 
morning  sun  and  a  sweet-tempered  little  breeze,  which 
lingered  within  this  verdant  sphere,  and  set  a  thousand 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  337 

leafy  tongues  a-whispering  all  at  once.  This  aged  tree 
appeared  to  have  suffered  nothing  from  the  gale.  It 
had  kept  its  boughs  unshattered,  and  its  full  comple- 
ment of  leaves  ;  and  the  whole  in  perfect  verdure,  ex- 
cept  a  single  branch,  that,  by  the  earlier  change  with 
which  the  elm-tree  sometimes  prophesies  the  autumn, 
had  been  transmuted  to  bright  gold.  It  was  like  the 
golden  branch  that  gained  jEneas  and  the  Sibyl  ad- 
mittance into  Hades. 

This  one  mystic  branch  hung  down  before  the  main 
entrance  of  the  Seven  Gables,  so  nigh  the  ground  that 
any  passer-by  might  have  stood  on  tiptoe  and  plucked 
it  off.  Presented  at  the  door,  it  would  have  been  a 
symbol  of  his  right  to  enter,  and  be  made  acquainted 
with  all  the  secrets  of  the  house.  So  little  faith  is  due 
to  external  appearance,  that  there  was  really  an  invit- 
ing aspect  over  the  venerable  edifice,  conveying  an  idea 
that  its  history  must  be  a  decorous  and  happy  one,  and 
such  as  would  be  delightful  for  a  fireside  tale.  Its 
windows  gleamed  cheerfully  in  the  slanting  sunlight. 
The  lines  and  tufts  of  green  moss,  here  and  there, 
seemed  pledges  of  familiarity  and  sisterhood  with  Na- 
ture ;  as  if  this  human  dwelling-place,  being  of  such 
old  date,  had  established  its  prescriptive  title  among 
primeval  oaks  and  whatever  other  objects,  by  virtue  of 
their  long  continuance,  have  acquired  a  gracious  right 
to  be.  A  person  of  imaginative  temperament,  while 
passing  by  the  house,  would  turn,  once  and  again,  and 
peruse  it  well :  its  many  peaks,  consenting  together  in 
the  clustered  chimney  ;  the  deep  projection  over  its 
basement-story  ;  the  arched  window,  imparting  a  look, 
if  not  of  grandeur,  yet  of  antique  gentility,  to  the 
broken  portal  over  which  it  opened ;  the  luxuriance 
of  gigantic  burdocks,  near  the  threshold;  he  would 

.  YOL.  III.  22 


838    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

note  all  these  characteristics,  and  be  conscious  of  some 
thing  deeper  than  he  saw.  He  would  conceive  the 
mansion  to  have  been  the  residence  of  the  stubborn  old 
Puritan,  Integrity,  who,  dying  in  some  forgotten  gen- 
eration, had  left  a  blessing  in  all  its  rooms  and  cham- 
bers, the  efficacy  of  which  was  to  be  seen  in  the  re- 
ligion, honesty,  moderate  competence,  or  upright  pov- 
erty and  solid  happiness,  of  his  descendants,  to  this 

day- 
One  object,  above  all  others,  would  take  root  in  the 
imaginative  observer's  memory.  It  was  the  great  tuft 
of  flowers,  —  weeds,  you  would  have  called  them,  only 
a  week  ago,  —  the  tuft  of  crimson-spotted  flowers,  in 
the  angle  between  the  two  front  gables.  The  old  peo- 
ple used  to  give  them  the  name  of  Alice's  Posies,  in 
remembrance  of  fair  Alice  Pyncheon,  who  was  believed 
to  have  brought  their  seeds  from  Italy.  They  were 
flaunting  in  rich  beauty  and  full  bloom  to-day,  and 
seemed,  as  it  were,  a  mystic  expression  that  something 
within  the  house  was  consummated. 

It  was  but  little  after  sunrise,  when  Uncle  Venner 
made  his  appearance,  as  aforesaid,  impelling  a  wheel- 
barrow along  the  street.  He  was  going  his  matutinal 
rounds  to  collect  cabbage-leaves,  turnip-tops,  potato- 
skins,  and  the  miscellaneous  refuse  of  the  dinner-pot, 
which  the  thrifty  housewives  of  the  neighborhood  were 
accustomed  to  put  aside,  as  fit  only  to  feed  a  pig.  Un- 
cle Vernier's  pig  was  fed  entirely,  and  kept  in  prune 
order,  on  these  eleemosynary  contributions  ;  insomuch 
that  the  patched  philosopher  used  to  promise  that,  be- 
fore retiring  to.  his  farm,  he  would  make  a  feast  of  the 
portly  grunter,  and  invite  all  his  neighbors  to  partake 
of  the  joints  and  spare-ribs  which  they  had  helped  to 
fatten.  Miss  Hepzibah  Pyncheon's  housekeeping  had 


'  ALICE'S  POSIES.  339 

to  greatly  improved,  since  Clifford  became  a  member 
of  the  family,  that  her  share  of  the  banquet  would  have 
been  no  lean  one ;  and  Uncle  Venner,  accordingly, 
was  a  good  deal  disappointed  not  to  find  the  large 
earthen  pan,  full  of  fragmentary  eatables,  that  ordina- 
rily awaited  his  coming  at  the  back  doorstep  of  the 
Seven  Gables. 

"  I  never  knew  Miss  Hepzibah  so  forgetful  before," 
said  the  patriarch  to  himself.  "  She  must  have  had  a 
dinner  yesterday,  —  no  question  of  that !  She  always 
has  one,  nowadays.  So  where 's  the  pot-liquor  and 
potato-skins,  I  ask  ?  Shall  I  knock,  and  see  if  she  's 
stirring  yet  ?  No,  no,  —  't  won't  do !  If  little  Phosbe 
was  about  the  house,  I  should  not  mind  knocking  ;  but 
Miss  Hepzibah,  likely  as  not,  would  scowl  down  at  me 
out  of  the  window,  and  look  cross,  even  if  she  felt 
pleasantly.  So,  I  '11  come  back  at  noon." 

With  these  reflections,  the  old  man  was  shutting  the 
gate  of  the  little  back-yard.  Creaking  on  its  hinges, 
however,  like  every  other  gate  and  door  about  the 
premises,  the  sound  reached  the  ears  of  the  occupant 
of  the  northern  gable,  one  of  the  windows  of  which 
had  a  side-view  towards  the  gate. 

"  Good  morning,  Uncle  Venner ! "  said  the  daguerre- 
otypist,  leaning  out  of  the  window.  "  Do  you  hear  no- 
body stirring  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul,"  said  the  man  of  patches.  "  But 
that 's  no  wonder.  'T  is  barely  half  an  hour  past  sun- 
rise, yet.  But  I  'm  really  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Hoi- 
grave  !  There 's  a  strange,  lonesome  look  about  this 
side  of  the  house  ;  so  that  my  heart  misgave  me,  some- 
how or  other,  and  I  felt  as  if  there  was  nobody  alive 
in  it.  The  front  of  the  house  looks  a  good  deal  cheer- 
ier ;  and  Alice's  Posies  are  blooming  there  beautifully; 


340    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

and  if  I  were  a  young  man,  Mr.  Holgrave,  my  sweet 
heart  should  have  one  of  those  flowers  in  her  bosom, 
though  I  risked  my  neck  climbing  for  it !  Well,  and 
did  the  wind  keep  you  awake  last  night  ?  " 

"  It  did,  indeed !  "  answered  the  artist,  smiling.  "  If 
I  were  a  believer  in  ghosts,  —  and  I  don't  quite  know 
whether  I  am  or  not,  —  I  should  have  concluded  that 
fill  the  old  Pyncheons  were  running  riot  in  the  lowei 
rooms,  especially  in  Miss  Hepzibah's  part  of  the  house. 
But  it  is  very  quiet  now." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Hepzibah  will  be  apt  to  over-sleep  her- 
self, after  being  disturbed,  all  night,  with  the  racket," 
said  Uncle  Venner.  "  But  it  would  be  odd,  now, 
would  n't  it,  if  the  Judge  had  taken  both  his  cousins 
into  the  country  along  with  him  ?  I  saw  him  go  into 
the  shop  yesterday." 

"  At  what  hour  ?  "  inquired  Holgrave. 

"  Oh,  along  in  the  forenoon,"  said  the  old  man 
"  Well,  well !  I  must  go  my  rounds,  and  so  must  my 
wheelbarrow.  But  I  '11  be  back  here  at  dinner-time ; 
for  my  pig  likes  a  dinner  as  well  as  a  breakfast.  No 
meal-tune,  and  no  sort  of  victuals,  ever  seems  to  come 
amiss  to  my  pig.  Good  morning  to  you  !  And,  Mr. 
Holgrave,  if  I  were  a  young  man,  like  you,  I  'd  get 
one  of  Alice's  Posies,  and  keep  it  in  water  till  Phoebe 
comes  back." 

"  I  have  heard,"  said  the  daguerreotypist,  as  he 
drew  in  his  head,  "  that  the  water  of  Maule's  well  suits 
those  flowers  best." 

Here  the  conversation  ceased,  and  Uncle  Venner 
went  on  his  way.  For  half  an  hour  longer,  nothing 
disturbed  the  repose  of  the  Seven  Gables ;  nor  was 
there  any  visitor,  except  a  carrier-boy,  who,  as  he 
passed  the  front  doorstep,  threw  down  one  of  his  newa» 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  341 

papers ;  for  Hepzibah,  of  late,  had  regularly  taken  it 
in.  After  a  while,  there  came  a  fat  woman,  making 
prodigious  speed,  and  stumbling  as  she  ran  up  the 
steps  of  the  shop-door.  Her  face  glowed  with  fire- 
heat,  and,  it  being  a  pretty  warm  morning,  she  bub- 
bled and  hissed,  as  it  were,  as  if  all  a-fry  with  chim- 
ney-warmth, and  summer-warmth,  and  the  warmth  of 
her  own  corpulent  velocity.  She  tried  the  shop-door ; 
it  was  fast.  She  tried  it  again,  with  so  angry  a  jar 
that  the  bell  tinkled  angrily  back  at  her. 

"  The  deuce  take  Old  Maid  Pyncheon  !  "  muttered 
the  irascible  housewife.  "  Think  of  her  pretending 
to  set  up  a  cent-shop,  and  then  lying  abed  till  noon ! 
These  are  what  she  calls  gentlefolk's  airs,  I  suppose ! 
But  I  '11  either  start  her  ladyship,  or  break  the  door 
down !  " 

She  shook  it  accordingly,  and  the  bell,  having  a 
spiteful  little  temper  of  its  own,  rang  obstreperously, 
making  its  remonstrances  heard,  —  not,  indeed,  by  the 
ears  for  which  they  were  intended,  —  but  by  a  good 
lady  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  She  opened  her 
window,  and  addressed  the  impatient  applicant. 

"  You  '11  find  nobody  there,  Mrs.  Gubbins." 

"  But  I  must  and  will  find  somebody  here  !  "  cried 
Mrs.  Gubbins,  inflicting  another  outrage  on  the  bell. 
"I  want  a  half-pound  of  pork,  to  fry  some  first-rate 
flounders,  for  Mr.  Gubbins's  breakfast ;  and,  lady  or 
not,  Old  Maid  Pyncheon  shall  get  up  and  serve  me 
with  it  !  " 

"  But  do  hear  reason,  Mrs.  Gubbins !  "  responded 
the  lady  opposite.  "  She,  and  her  brother  too,  have 
both  gone  to  their  cousin,  Judge  Pyncheon's  at  his 
country-seat.  There  's  not  a  soul  in  the  house,  but 
that  young  daguerreotype-man  that  sleeps  in  the  north 


842    THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

gable.  I  saw  old  Hepzibah  and  Clifford  go  away 
yesterday;  and  a  queer  couple  of  ducks  they  were, 
paddling  through  the  mud-puddles  !  They  're  gone, 
I  '11  assure  you." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  they  're  gone  to  the 
Judge's  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Gubbins.  "  He  's  a  rich  man ; 
and  there 's  been  a  quarrel  between  him  and  Hepzibah, 
this  many  a  day  because  he  won't  give  her  a  living. 
That 's  the  main  reason  of  her  setting  up  a  cent-shop." 

"  I  know  that  well  enough,"  said  the  neighbor.  "  But 
they're  gone, — that's  one  thing  certain.  And  who 
but  a  blood  relation,  that  could  n't  help  himself,  I  ask 
you,  would  take  in  that  awful-tempered  old  maid,  and 
that  dreadful  Clifford  ?  That 's  it,  you  may  be  sure." 

Mrs.  Gubbins  took  her  departure,  still  brimming  over 
with  hot  wrath  against  the  absent  Hepzibah.  For  an- 
other half-hour,  or,  perhaps,  considerably  more,  there 
was  almost  as  much  quiet  on  the  outside  of  the  house 
as  within.  The  elm,  however,  made  a  pleasant,  cheer- 
ful, sunny  sigh,  responsive  to  the  breeze  that  was  else- 
where imperceptible ;  a  swarm  of  insects  buzzed  mer- 
rily under  its  drooping  shadow,  and  became  specks  of 
light  whenever  they  darted  into  the  sunshine  ;  a  locust 
sang,  once  or  twice,  in  some  inscrutable  seclusion  of  the 
tree ;  and  a  solitary  little  bird,  with  plumage  of  pale 
gold,  came  and  hovered  about  Alice's  Posies. 

At  last  our  small  acquaintance,  Ned  Higgins,  trudged 
up  the  street,  on  his  way  to  school ;  and  happening,  for 
the  first  time  in  a  fortnight,  to  be  the  possessor  of  a 
cent,  he  could  by  no  means  get  past  the  shop-door  of 
the  Seven  Gables.  But  it  would  not  open.  Again  and 
again,  however,  and  half  a  dozen  other  agains,  with  the 
inexorable  pertinacity  of  a  child  intent  upon  some  ol> 
ject  important  to  itself,  did  he  renew  his  efforts  for  ad 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  343 

pittance.  He  had,  doubtless,  set  his  heart  upon  an  ele« 
phant ;  or,  possibly,  with  Hamlet,  he  meant  to  eat  a 
crocodile.  In  response  to  his  more  violent  attacks,  the 
bell  gave,  now  and  then,  a  moderate  tinkle,  but  could 
not  be  stirred  into  clamor  by  any  exertion  of  the  little 
fellow's  childish  and  tiptoe  strength.  Holding  by  the 
door-handle,  he  peeped  through  a  crevice  of  the  cur- 
tain, and  saw  that  the  inner  door,  communicating  witth 
the  passage  towards  the  parlor,  was  closed. 

"  Miss  Pyncheon !  "  screamed  the  child,  rapping  on 
the  window-pane,  "  I  want  an  elephant !  " 

There  being  no  answer  to  several  repetitions  of  the 
summons,  Ned  began  to  grow  impatient ;  and  his  little 
pot  of  passion  quickly  boiling  over,  he  picked  up  a 
stone,  with  a  naughty  purpose  to  fling  it  through  the 
window ;  at  the  same  time  blubbering  and  sputtering 
with  wrath.  A  man  —  one  of  two  who  happened  to 
be  passing  by  —  caught  the  urchin's  arm. 

"  What 's  the  trouble,  old  gentleman?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  want  old  Hepzibah,  or  Phoebe,  or  any  of  them !  " 
answered  Ned,  sobbing.  "  They  won't  open  the  door ; 
and  I  can't  get  my  elephant !  " 

"  Go  to  school,  you  little  scamp !  "  said  the  man. 
"  There  's  another  cent-shop  round  the  corner.  'T  is 
very  strange,  Dixey,"  added  he  to  his  companion, 
u  what 's  become  of  all  these  Pyncheons !  Smith,  the 
livery-stable  keeper,  tells  me  Judge  Pyncheon  put  his 
horse  up  yesterday,  to  stand  till  after  dinner,  and  has 
not  taken  him  away  yet.  And  one  of  the  Judge's  hired 
men  has  been  in,  this  morning,  to  make  inquiry  about 
him.  He  's  a  kind  of  person,  they  say,  that  seldom 
breaks  his  habits,  or  stays  out  o'  nights." 

"  Oh,  he  '11  turn  up  safe  enough  1 "  said  Dixey.  "  And 
as  for  Old  Maid  Pyncheon,  take  my  word  for  it,  she 


844     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE   SEVEN  GABLES. 

has  run  in  debt,  and  gone  off  from  her  creditors.  I 
foretold,  you  remember,  the  first  morning  she  set  up 
shop,  that  her  devilish  scowl  would  frighten  away  cus- 
tomers. They  could  n't  stand  it !  " 

"  I  never  thought  she  'd  make  it  go,"  remarked  his 
friend.  "This  business  of  cent -shops  is  overdone 
among  the  womenfolks.  My  wife  tried  it,  and  lost  five 
dollars  on  her  outlay !  " 

"  Poor  business ! "  said  Dixey,  shaking  his  head 
*'  Poor  business  !  " 

In  the  course  of  the  morning,  there  were  various 
other  attempts  to  open  a  communication  with  the  sup. 
posed  inhabitants  of  this  silent  and  unpenetrable  man. 
sion.  The  man  of  root-beer  came,  in  his  neatly  painted 
wagon,  with  a  couple  of  dozen  full  bottles,  to  be  ex- 
changed for  empty  ones;  the  baker,  with  a  lot  of 
crackers  which  Hepzibah  had  ordered  for  her  retail 
custom ;  the  butcher,  with  a  nice  titbit  which  he  fan- 
cied she  would  be  eager  to  secure  for  Clifford.  Had 
any  observer  of  these  proceedings  been  aware  of  the 
fearful  secret  hidden  within  the  house,  it  would  have 
affected  him  with  a  singular  shape  and  modification  of 
horror,  to  see  the  current  of  human  life  making  this 
small  eddy  hereabouts,  —  whirling  sticks,  straws,  and 
all  such  trifles,  round  and  round,  right  over  the  black 
depth  where  a  dead  corpse  lay  unseen ! 

The  butcher  was  so  much  in  earnest  with  his  sweet- 
bread of  lamb,  or  whatever  the  dainty  might  be,  that 
he  tried  every  accessible  door  of  the  Seven  Gables, 
and  at  length  came  round  again  to  the  shop,  where  he 
ordinarily  found  admittance. 

"  It 's  a  nice  article,  and  I  know  the  old  lady  would 
jump  at  it,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  She  can't  be  gone 
away!  In  fifteen  years  that  I  have  driven  my  cart 


ALICE'S  POSIES. 

through  Pyncheon  Street,  I  've  never  known  her  to  be 
away  from  home ;  though  often  enough,  to  be  sure,  a 
man  might  knock  all  day  without  bringing  her  to  the 
door.  But  that  was  when  she  'd  only  herself  to  pro~ 
vide  for." 

Peeping  through  the  same  crevice  of  the  curtain 
where,  only  a  little  while  before,  the  urchin  of  ele- 
phantine appetite  had  peeped,  the  butcher  beheld  the 
inner  door,  not  closed,  as  the  child  had  seen  it,  but 
ajar,  and  almost  wide  open.  However  it  might  have 
happened,  it  was  the  fact.  Through  the  passage-way 
there  was  a  dark  vista  into  the  lighter  but  still  obscure 
interior  of  the  parlor.  It  appeared  to  the  butcher  that 
he  could  pretty  clearly  discern  what  seemed  to  be  the 
stalwart  legs,  clad  in  black  pantaloons,  of  a  man  sit- 
ting in  a  large  oaken  chair,  the  back  of  which  con- 
cealed all  the  remainder  of  his  figure.  This  contempt- 
uous tranquillity  on  the  part  of  an  occupant  of  the 
house,  in  response  to  the  butcher's  indefatigable  efforts 
to  attract  notice,  so  piqued  the  man  of  flesh  that  he 
determined  to  withdraw. 

"  So,"  thought  he,  "  there  sits  Old  Maid  Pyncheon's 
bloody  brother,  while  I  've  been  giving  myself  all  this 
trouble  !  Why,  if  a  hog  had  n't  more  manners,  I  'd 
stick  him !  I  call  it  demeaning  a  man's  business  to 
trade  with  such  people ;  and  from  this  tune  forth,  if 
they  want  a  sausage  or  an  ounce  of  liver,  they  shall 
run  after  the  cart  for  it ! " 

He  tossed  the  titbit  angrily  into  his  cart,  and  drove 
off  in  a  pet. 

Not  a  great  while  afterwards  there  was  a  sound  of 
music  turning  the  corner,  and  approaching  down  the 
street,  with  several  intervals  of  silence,  and  then  a  re- 
newed and  nearer  outbreak  of  brisk  melody.  A  mob 


846      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

of  children  was  seen  moving  onward,  or  stopping,  in 
unison  with  the  sound,  which  appeared  to  proceed 
from  the  centre  of  the  throng ;  so  that  they  were 
loosely  bound  together  by  slender  strains  of  harmony, 
and  drawn  along  captive ;  with  ever  and  anon  an  ac- 
cession of  some  little  fellow  in  an  apron  and  straw-hat, 
capering  forth  from  door  or  gateway.  Arriving  under 
the  shadow  of  the  Pyncheon  Elm,  it  proved  to  be  the 
Italian  boy,  who,  with  his  monkey  and  show  of  pup- 
pets, had  once  before  played  his  hurdy-gurdy  beneath 
the  arched  window.  The  pleasant  face  of  Phoebe  — 
and  doubtless,  too,  the  liberal  recompense  which  she 
had  flung  him  —  still  dwelt  in  his  remembrance.  His 
expressive  features  kindled  up,  as  he  recognized  the 
spot  where  this  trifling  incident  of  his  erratic  life  had 
chanced.  He  entered  the  neglected  yard  (now  wilder 
than  ever,  with  its  growth  of  hog- weed  and  burdock), 
stationed  himself  on  the  doorstep  of  the  main  entrance, 
and,  opening  his  show-box,  began  to  play.  Each  in- 
dividual of  the  automatic  community  forthwith  set  to 
work,  according  to  his  or  her  proper  vocation :  the 
monkey,  taking  off  his  Highland  bonnet,  bowed  and 
scraped  to  the  by-standers  most  obsequiously,  with 
ever  an  observant  eye  to  pick  up  a  stray  cent ;  and 
the  young  foreigner  himself,  as  he  turned  the  crank  of 
his  machine,  glanced  upward  to  the  arched  window, 
expectant  of  a  presence  that  ^*  rould  make  his  music  the 
livelier  and  sweeter.  The  throng  of  children  stood 
near ;  some  on  the  sidewalk ;  some  within  the  yard ;  two 
or  three  establishing  themselves  on  the  very  door-step ; 
and  one  squatting  on  the  threshold.  Meanwhile,  the 
locust  kept  singing  in  the  great  old  Pyncheon  Elm. 

"  I  don't  hear  anybody  in  the  house,"  said  one  of  the 
children  to  another.  "  The  monkey  won't  pick  up  any- 
thing here." 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  347 

"  There  is  somebody  at  home,"  affirmed  the  urchin 
Dn  the  threshold.  "  I  heard  a  step !  " 

Still  the  young  Italian's  eye  turned  sidelong  up- 
ward ;  and  it  really  seemed  as  if  the  touch  of  genuine, 
though  slight  and  almost  playful,  emotion  communi- 
cated a  juicier  sweetness  to  the  dry,  mechanical  pro- 
cess of  his  minstrelsy.  These  wanderers  are  readily  re- 
sponsive to  any  natural  kindness  —  be  it  no  more  than 
a  smile,  or  a  word  itself  not  understood,  but  only  a 
warmth  in  it  —  which  befalls  them  on  the  roadside  of 
life.  They  remember  these  things,  because  they  are 
the  little  enchantments  which,  for  the  instant,  —  for 
the  space  that  reflects  a  landscape  in  a  soap-bubble,  — 
build  up  a  home  about  them.  Therefore,  the  Italian 
boy  would  not  be  discouraged  by  the  heavy  silence 
with  which  the  old  house  seemed  resolute  to  clog  the 
vivacity  of  his  instrument.  He  persisted  in  his  melo- 
dious appeals ;  he  still  looked  upward,  trusting  that  his 
dark,  alien  countenance  would  soon  be  brightened  by 
Phoebe's  sunny  aspect.  Neither  could  he  be  willing  to 
depart  without  again  beholding  Clifford,  whose  sensi- 
bility, like  Phoebe's  smile,  had  talked  a  kind  of  heart's 
language  to  the  foreigner.  He  repeated  all  his  music 
over  and  over  again,  until  his  auditors  were  getting 
weary.  So  were  the  little  wooden  people  in  his  show- 
box,  and  the  monkey  most  of  all.  There  was  no  re- 
sponse, save  the  singing  of  the  locust. 

"  No  children  live  in  this  house,"  said  a  school-boy, 
at  last.  "  Nobody  lives  here  but  an  old  maid  and  an 
old  man.  You  '11  get  nothing  here  I  "Why  don't  you 
go  along?" 

"  You  fool,  you,  why  do  you  tell  him  ?  "  whispered  a 
fthrewd  little  Yankee,  caring  nothing  for  the  music,  but 
a  good  deal  for  the  cheap  rate  at  which  it  was  had 


348      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  Let  him  play  as  long  as  he  likes !  If  there 's  nobody 
to  pay  him,  that 's  his  own  lookout !  " 

Once  more,  however,  the  Italian  ran  over  his  round 
of  melodies.  To  the  common  observer  —  who  could 
understand  nothing  of  the  case,  except  the  music  and 
the  sunshine  on  the  hither  side  of  the  door  —  it  might 
have  been  amusing  to  watch  the  pertinacity  of  the 
street-performer.  Will  he  succeed  at  last  ?  Will  that 
stubborn  door  be  suddenly  flung  open  ?  Will  a  group 
of  joyous  children,  the  young  ones  of  the  house,  come 
dancing,  shouting,  laughing,  into  the  open  air,  and 
cluster  round  the  show-box,  looking  with  eager  merri- 
ment at  the  puppets,  and  tossing  each  a  copper  for 
long-tailed  Mammon,  the  monkey,  to  pick  up  ? 

But  to  us,  who  know  the  inner  heart  of  the  Seven 
Gables  as  well  as  its  exterior  face,  there  is  a  ghastly 
effect  in  this  repetition  of  light  popular  tunes  at  its 
door-step.  It  would  be  an  ugly  business,  indeed,  if 
Judge  Pyncheon  (who  would  not  have  cared  a  fig  for 
Paganini's  fiddle  in  his  most  harmonious  mood)  should 
make  his  appearance  at  the  door,  witji  a  bloody  shirt- 
bosom,  and  a  grim  frown  on  his  swarthily  white  visage, 
and  motion  the  foreign  vagabond  away!  Was  ever 
before  such  a  grinding  out  of  jigs  and  waltzes,  where 
nobody  was  in  the  cue  to  dance  ?  Yes,  very  often. 
This  contrast,  or  intermingling  of  tragedy  with  mirth, 
happens  daily,  hourly,  momently.  The  gloomy  and 
desolate  old  house,  deserted  of  life,  and  with  awful 
Death  sitting  sternly  in  its  solitude,  was  the  emblem 
of  many  a  human  heart,  which,  nevertheless,  is  com- 
pelled to  hear  the  thrill  and  echo  of  the  world's  gayety 
around  it. 

Before  the  conclusion  of  the  Italian's  performance, 
a  couple  of  men  happened  to  be  passing,  on  their  way 
to  dinner. 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  849 

"  I  say,  you  young  French  fellow !  "  called  out  one 
of  them,  —  "  come  away  from  that  doorstep,  and  go 
somewhere  else  with  your  nonsense !  The  Pyncheon 
family  live  there  ;  and  they  are  in  great  trouble,  just 
about  this  time.  They  don't  feel  musical  to-day.  It 
is  reported  all  over  town  that  Judge  Pyncheon,  who 
owns  the  house,  has  been  murdered;  and  the  city 
marshal  is  going  to  look  into  the  matter.  So  be  off 
with  you,  at  once  !  " 

As  the  Italian  shouldered  his  hurdy-gurdy,  he  saw 
on  the  doorstep  a  card,  which  had  been  covered,  all 
the  morning,  by  the  newspaper  that  the  carrier  had 
flung  upon  it,  but  was  now  shuffled  into  sight.  He 
picked  it  up,  and  perceiving  something  written  in  pen- 
cil, gave  it  to  the  man  to  read.  In  fact,  it  was  an  en- 
graved card  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  with  certain  pencilled 
memoranda  on  the  back,  referring  to  various  busi- 
nesses which  it  had  been  his  purpose  to  transact  dur- 
ing the  preceding  day.  It  formed  a  prospective  epit- 
ome of  the  day's  history;  only  that  affairs  had  not 
turned  out  altogether  in  accordance  with  the  pro- 
gramme. The  card  must  have  been  lost  from  the 
Judge's  vest-pocket,  in  his  preliminary  attempt  to  gain 
access  by  the  main  entrance  of  the  house.  Though 
well  soaked  with  rain,  it  was  still  partially  legible. 

"  Look  here,  Dixey  !  "  cried  the  man.  "  This  has 
Something  to  do  with  Judge  Pyncheon.  See  !  —  here 's 
his  name  printed  on  it ;  and  here,  I  suppose,  is  some 
of  his  handwriting." 

"  Let 's  go  to  the  city  marshal  with  it !  "  said  Dixey. 
M  It  may  give  him  just  the  Jew  he  wants.  After  all," 
whispered  he  in  his  companion's  ear,  "it  would  be  no 
wonder  if  the  Judge  has  gone  into  that  door  and  never 
come  out  again !  A  certain  cousin  of  his  may  have 


350      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 


been  at  his  old  tricks.  And  Old  Maid  Pyncheon 
ing  got  herself  in  debt  by  the  cent-shop,  —  and  thf 
Judge's  pocket-book  being  well  filled,  —  and  bad  blood 
amongst  them  already  !  Put  all  these  things  together 
and  see  what  they  make  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  whispered  the  other.  "  It  seems 
like  a  sin  to  be  the  first  to  speak  of  such  a  thing, 
But  I  think,  with  you,  that  we  had  better  go  to  the 
city  marshal." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  said  Dixey.  "  Well  !  —  I  always  said 
there  was  something  devilish,  in  that  woman's  scowl  !  " 

The  men  wheeled  about,  accordingly,  and  retraced 
their  steps  up  the  street.  The  Italian,  also,  made  the 
best  of  his  way  off,  with  a  parting  glance  up  at  the 
arched  window.  As  for  the  children,  they  took  to 
their  heels,  with  one  accord,  and  scampered  as  if  some 
giant  or  ogre  were  in  pursuit,  until,  at  a  good  distance 
from  the  house,  they  stopped  as  suddenly  and  simulta- 
neously as  they  had  set  out.  Their  susceptible  nerves 
took  an  indefinite  alarm  from  what  they  had  over 
heard.  Looking  back  at  the  grotesque  peaks  and 
shadowy  angles  of  the  old  mansion,  they  fancied  a 
gloom  diffused  about  it  which  no  brightness  of  the  sun- 
shine could  dispel.  An  imaginary  Hepzibah  scowled 
and  shook  her  finger  at  them,  from  several  windows 
at  the  same  moment.  An  imaginary  Clifford  —  for 
(and  it  would  have  deeply  wounded  him  to  know  it) 
he  had  always  been  a  horror  to  these  small  people  — 
stood  behind  the  unreal  Hepzibah,  making  awful  ges- 
tures, in  a  faded  dressing-gown.  Children  are  even 
more  apt,  if  possible,  than  grown  people,  to  catch  the 
contagion  of  a  panic  terror.  For  the  rest  of  the  day, 
the  more  timid  went  whole  streets  about,  for  the  sake 
of  avoiding  the  Seven  Grables  ;  while  the  bolder  sig- 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  351 

nalized  their  hardihood  by  challenging  their  comrades 
to  race  past  the  mansion  at  full  speed. 

It  could  not  have  been  more  than  half  an  hour  after 
the  disappearance  of  the  Italian  boy,  with  his  unsea- 
sonable melodies,  when  a  cab  drove  down  the  street. 
It  stopped  beneath  the  Pyncheon  Elm;  the  cabman 
took  a  trunk,  a  canvas  bag,  and  a  bandbox,  from  the 
top  of  his  vehicle,  and  deposited  them  on  the  doorstep 
of  the  old  house ;  a  straw  bonnet,  and  then  the  pretty 
figure  of  a  young  girl,  came  into  view  from  the  inte- 
rior of  the  cab.  It  was  Phcsbe !  Though  not  alto- 
gether so  blooming  as  when  she  first  tripped  into  our 
story,  —  for,  in  the  few  intervening  weeks,  her  ex- 
periences had  made  her  graver,  more  womanly,  and 
deeper-eyed,  in  token  of  a  heart  that  had  begun  to 
suspect  its  depths,  —  still  there  was  the  quiet  glow  of 
natural  sunshine  over  her.  Neither  had  she  forfeited 
her  proper  gift  of  making  things  look  real,  rather  than 
fantastic,  within  her  sphere.  Yet  we  feel  it  to  be  a 
questionable  venture,  even  for  Phoebe,  at  this  junc- 
ture, to  cross  the  threshold  of  the  Seven  Gables.  Is 
her  healthful  presence  potent  enough  to  chase  away 
the  crowd  of  pale,  hideous,  and  sinful  phantoms,  that 
have  gained  admittance  there  since  her  departure? 
Or  will  she,  likewise,  fade,  sicken,  sadden,  and  grow 
into  deformity,  and  be  only  another  pallid  phantom, 
to  glide  noiselessly  up  and  down  the  stairs,  and  af- 
fright children  as  she  pauses  at  the  window  ? 

At  least,  we  would  gladly  forewarn  the  unsuspecting 
girl  that  there  is  nothing  in  human  shape  or  substance 
to  receive  her,  unless  it  be  the  figure  of  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon, who — wretched  spectacle  that  he  is,  and  fright- 
ful in  our  remembrance,  since  our  night-long  vigil  with 
tim  1  -  -  still  keeps  his  place  in  the  oaken  chair. 


852      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

Phoebe  first  tried  the  shop-door.  It  did  not  yield  to 
fcer  hand ;  and  the  white  curtain,  drawn  across  the 
window  which  formed  the  upper  section  of  the  door, 
struck  her  quick  perceptive  faculty  as  something  un- 
usual. Without  making  another  effort  to  enter  here, 
she  betook  herself  to  the  great  portal,  under  the  arched 
window.  Finding  it  fastened,  she  knocked.  A  re- 
verberation came  from  the  emptiness  within.  She 
knocked  again,  and  a  third  time ;  and,  listening  in- 
tently, fancied  that  the  floor  creaked,  as  if  Hepzibah 
were  coming,  with  her  ordinary  tiptoe  movement,  to 
admit  her.  But  so  dead  a  silence  ensued  upon  this 
imaginary  sound,  that  she  began  to  question  whether 
she  might  not  have  mistaken  the  house,  familiar  as 
she  thought  herself  with  its  exterior. 

Her  notice  was  now  attracted  by  a  child's  voice,  at 
some  distance.  It  appeared  to  call  her  name.  Look- 
ing in  the  direction  whence  it  proceeded,  Phoebe  saw 
little  Ned  Higgins,  a  good  way  down  the  street,  stamp- 
ing, shaking  his  head  violently,  making  deprecatory 
gestures  with  both  hands,  and  shouting  to  her  at 
mouth- wide  screech. 

" No,  no,  Phoebe ?"  he  screamed.  "Don't  you  go 
in !  There 's  something  wicked  there !  Don't — don't 
—  don't  go  in !  " 

But,  as  the  little  personage  could  not  be  induced  to 
approach  near  enough  to  explain  himself,  Phoebe  con- 
cluded that  he  had  been  frightened,  on  some  of  his 
visits  to  the  shop,  by  her  cousin  Hepzibah ;  for  the 
good  lady's  manifestations,  in  truth,  ran  about  an 
equal  chance  of  scaring  children  out  of  their  wits,  or 
compelling  them  to  unseemly  laughter.  Still,  she  felt 
the  more,  for  this  incident,  how  unaccountably  silent 
and  impenetrable  the  house  had  become.  As  her  nex* 


ALICE'S  POSIES.  353 

resort,  Phoebe  made  her  way  into  the  garden,  where 
on  so  warm  and  bright  a  day  as  the  present,  she  had 
little  doubt  of  finding  Clifford,  and  perhaps  Hepzibah 
also,  idling  away  the  noontide  in  the  shadow  of  the 
arbor.  Immediately  on  her  entering  the  garden-gate, 
the  family  of  hens  half  ran,  half  flew,  to  meet  her ; 
while  a  strange  grimalkin,  which  was  prowling  under 
the  parlor  window,  took  to  his  heels,  clambered  hastily 
over  the  fence,  and  vanished.  The  arbor  was  vacant, 
and  its  floor,  table,  and  circular  bench  were  still  damp, 
and  bestrewn  with  twigs,  and  the  disarray  of  the  past 
storm.  The  growth  of  the  garden  seemed  to  have  got 
quite  out  of  bounds ;  the  weeds  had  taken  advantage 
of  Phoebe's  absence,  and  the  long-continued  rain,  to 
run  rampant  over  the  flowers  and  kitchen-vegetables. 
Maule's  well  had  overflowed  its  stone  border,  and 
made  a  pool  of  formidable  breadth  in  that  corner  of 
the  garden. 

The  impression  of  the  whole  scene  was  that  of  a 
spot  where  no  human  foot  had  left  its  print  for  many 
preceding  days,  —  probably  not  since  Pho3be's  depart- 
ure, —  for  she  saw  a  side-comb  of  her  own  under  the 
table  of  the  arbor,  where  it  must  have  fallen  on  the 
last  afternoon  when  she  and  Clifford  sat  there. 

The  girl  knew  that  her  two  relatives  were  capable 
of  far  greater  oddities  than  that  of  shutting  them- 
selves up  in  their  old  house,  as  they  appeared  now  to 
have  done.  Nevertheless,  with  indistinct  misgivings 
of  something  amiss,  and  apprehensions  to  which  she 
could  not  give  shape,  she  approached  the  door  that 
formed  the  customary  communication  between  the 
house  and  garden.  It  was  secured  within,  like  the 
two  which  she  had  already  tried.  She  knocked,  how- 
ever ;  and  immediately,  as  if  the  application  had  been 

VOL.  ill.  23 


354     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

expected,  the  door  was  drawn  open,  by  a  considerable 
exertion  of  some  unseen  person's  strength,  not  wide, 
but  far  enough  to  afford  her  a  side-long  entrance.  As 
Hepzibah,  in  order  not  to  expose  herself  to  inspection 
from  without,  invariably  opened  a  door  in  this  man- 
ner, Phrebe  necessarily  concluded  that  it  was  her 
cousin  who  now  admitted  her. 

Without  hesitation,  therefore,  she  stepped  across 
the  threshold,  and  had  no  sooner  entered  than  the 
door  closed  behind  her. 


XX. 

THE  FLOWER  OF  EDEN. 

PHCEBE,  coming  so  suddenly  from  the  sunny  day- 
light, was  altogether  bedimmed  in  such  density  of 
shadow  as  lurked  in  most  of  the  passages  of  the  old 
house.  She  was  not  at  first  aware  by  whom  she  had 
been  admitted.  Before  her  eyes  had  adapted  them- 
selves to  the  obscurity,  a  hand  grasped  her  own,  with 
a  firm  but  gentle  and  warm  pressure,  thus  imparting 
a  welcome  which  caused  her  heart  to  leap  and  thrill 
with  an  indefinable  shiver  of  enjoyment.  She  felt  her- 
self drawn  along,  not  towards  the  parlor,  but  into  a 
large  and  unoccupied  apartment,  which  had  formerly 
been  the  grand  reception-room  of  the  Seven  Gables. 
The  sunshine  came  freely  into  all  the  uncurtained  win- 
dows of  this  room,  and  fell  upon  the  dusty  floor ;  so 
that  Phoebe  now  clearly  saw  —  what,  indeed,  had  been 
no  secret,  after  the  encounter  of  a  warm  hand  with 
hers  —  that  it  was  not  Hepzibah  nor  Clifford,  but 
Holgrave,  to  whom  she  owed  her  reception.  The  sub- 
tile, intuitive  communication,  or,  rather,  the  vague 
and  formless  impression  of  something  to  be  told,  had 
made  her  yield  unresistingly  to  his  impulse.  Without 
taking  away  her  hand,  she  looked  eagerly  in  his  face, 
not  quick  to  forebode  evil,  but  unavoidably  conscious 
that  the  state  of  the  family  had  changed  since  her  de- 
parture, and  therefore  anxious  for  an  explanation. 

The  artist  looked  paler  than  ordinary ;  there  was  a 


856      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

thoughtful  and  severe  contraction  of  his  forehead, 
tracing  a  deep,  vertical  line  between  the  eyebrows. 
His  smile,  however,  was  full  of  genuine  warmth,  and 
had  in  it  a  joy,  by  far  the  most  vivid  expression  that 
Phoebe  had  ever  witnessed,  shining  out  of  the  New 
England  reserve  with  which  Holgrave  habitually 
masked  whatever  lay  near  his  heart.  It  was  the  look 
wherewith  a  man,  brooding  alone  over  some  fearful 
object,  in  a  dreary  forest,  or  illimitable  desert,  would 
recognize  the  familiar  aspect  of  his  dearest  friend, 
bringing  up  all  the  peaceful  ideas  that  belong  to  home, 
and  the  gentle  current  of  every-day  affairs.  And  yet, 
as  he  felt  the  necessity  of  responding  to  her  look  of 
inquiry,  the  smile  disappeared. 

"  I  ought  not  to  rejoice  that  you  have  come,  Pho3- 
be,"  said  he.  "  We  meet  at  a  strange  moment !  " 

"  What  has  happened  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Why  is 
the  house  so  deserted?  Where  are  Hepzibah  and 
Clifford?" 

*'  Gone !  T  cannot  imagine  where  they  are  !  "  an- 
awered  Holgrave.  "  We  are  alone  in  the  house  I  " 

"  Hepzibah  and  Clifford  gone  ?  "  cried  Phoebe.  "  It 
is  not  possible  !  And  why  have  you  brought  me  into 
this  room,  instead  of  the  parlor  ?  Ah,  something  ter- 
rible has  happened  !  I  must  run  and  see !  " 

"  No,  no,  Phoebe  !  "  said  Holgrave,  holding  her 
back.  "  It  is  as  I  have  told  you.  They  are  gone,  and 
I  know  not  whither.  A  terrible  event  has,  indeed, 
happened,  but  not  to  them,  nor,  as  I  undoubtingly  be- 
lieve, through  any  agency  of  theirs.  If  I  read  your 
character  rightly,  Phoebe,"  he  continued,  fixing  his 
eyes  on  hers,  with  stern  anxiety,  intermixed  with  ten- 
derness, "  gentle  as  you  are,  and  seeming  to  have  your 
sphere  among  common  things,  you  yet  possess  re 


THE  FLOWER  OF  EDEN.  357 

markable  strength.  You  have  wonderful  poise,  and  a 
faculty  which,  when  tested,  will  prove  itself  capable  of 
dealing  with  matters  that  fall  far  out  of  the  ordinary 
rule." 

"  Oh  no,  I  am  very  weak ! "  replied  Phoebe,  trem- 
bling. "  But  tell  me  what  has  happened !  " 

"  You  are  strong !  "  persisted  Holgrave.  "  You 
must  be  both  strong  and  wise;  for  I  am  all  astray, 
and  need  your  counsel.  It  may  be  you  can  suggest 
the  one  right  thing  to  do !  " 

"  Tell  me !  —  tell  me  !  "  said  Phoebe,  all  in  a  trem- 
ble. "  It  oppresses,  —  it  terrifies  me,  —  this  mystery  I 
Anything  else  I  can  bear  ! " 

The  artist  hesitated.  Notwithstanding  what  he  had 
just  said,  and  most  sincerely,  in  regard  to  the  self- 
balancing  power  with  which  Phoebe  impressed  him,  it 
still  seemed  almost  wicked  to  bring  the  awful  secret  of 
yesterday  to  her  knowledge.  It  was  like  dragging  a 
hideous  shape  of  death  into  the  cleanly  and  cheerful 
space  before  a  household  fire,  where  it  would  present 
all  the  uglier  aspect,  amid  the  decorousness  of  every- 
thing about  it.  Yet  it  could  not  be  concealed  from 
her ;  she  must  needs  know  it. 

"  PhoBbe,"  said  he,  "  do  you  remember  this  ?  " 

He  put  into  her  hand  a  daguerreotype;  the  same 
that  he  had  shown  her  at  their  first  interview  in  the 
garden,  and  which  so  strikingly  brought  out  the  hard 
and  relentless  traits  of  the  original. 

"What  has  this  to  do  with  Hepzibah  and  Clif- 
ford?" asked  Phoebe,  with  impatient  surprise  that 
Holgrave  should  so  trifle  with  her  at  such  a  moment. 
u  It  is  Judge  Pyncheon  !  You  have  shown  it  to  me 
before !  " 

"  But  here  is  the  same  face,  taken  within  this  half* 


858     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

hour,"  said  the  artist,  presenting  her  with  anothe* 
miniature.  "  I  had  just  finished  it,  when  I  heard  you 
at  the  door." 

"  This  is  death !  "  shuddered  Phoebe,  turning  very 
pale.  "  Judge  Pyncheon  dead  !  '* 

"  Such  as  there  represented,"  said  Holgrave,  "  he 
sits  in  the  next  room.  The  Judge  is  dead,  and  Clif- 
ford and  Hepzibah  have  vanished !  I  know  no  more. 
All  beyond  is  conjecture.  On  returning  to  my  solitary 
chamber,  last  evening,  I  noticed  no  light,  either  in  the 
parlor,  or  Hepzibah's  room,  or  Clifford's ;  no  stir  nor 
footstep  about  the  house.  This  morning,  there  was 
the  same  death-like  quiet.  From  my  window,  I  over- 
heard the  testimony  of  a  neighbor,  that  your  relatives 
were  seen  leaving  the  house,  in  the  midst  of  yester- 
day's storm.  A  rumor  reached  me,  too,  of  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon being  missed.  A  feeling  which  I  cannot  de- 
scribe —  an  indefinite  sense  of  some  catastrophe,  or 
consummation  —  impelled  me  to  make  my  way  into 
this  part  of  the  house,  where  I  discovered  what  you 
see.  As  a  point  of  evidence  that  may  be  useful  to 
Clifford,  and  also  as  a  memorial  valuable  to  myself, 
—  for,  Phosbe,  there  are  hereditary  reasons  that  con- 
nect me  strangely  with  that  man's  fate,  —  I  used  the 
means  at  my  disposal  to  preserve  this  pictorial  record 
of  Judge  Pyncheon's  death." 

Even  in  her  agitation,  Phoabe  could  not  help  re- 
marking the  calmness  of  Holgrave's  demeanor.  He 
appeared,  it  is  true,  to  feel  the  whole  awfulness  of  the 
Judge's  death,  yet  had  received  the  fact  into  his  mind 
without  any  mixture  of  surprise,  but  as  an  event  pre- 
ordained, happening  inevitably,  and  so  fitting  itself 
into  past  occurrences  that  it  could  almost  have  been 
prophesied. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  EDEN.  359 

"  Why  have  you  not  thrown  open  the  doors,  and 
called  in  witnesses  ? "  inquired  she,  with  a  painful 
shudder.  "  It  is  terrible  to  be  here  alone !  " 

"  But  Clifford  !  "  suggested  the  artist.  "  Clifford 
and  Hepzibah !  We  must  consider  what  is  best  to  be 
done  in  their  behalf.  It  is  a  wretched  fatality  that 
they  should  have  disappeared !  Their  flight  will  throw 
the  worst  coloring  over  this  event  of  which  it  is  suscep- 
tible. Yet  how  easy  is  the  explanation,  to  those  who 
know  them!  Bewildered  and  terror-stricken  by  the 
similarity  of  this  death  to  a  former  one,  which  was  at- 
tended with  such  disastrous  consequences  to  Clifford, 
they  have  had  no  idea  but  of  removing  themselves  from 
the  scene.  How  miserably  unfortunate !  Had  Hepzi- 
bah but  shrieked  aloud,  —  had  Clifford  flung  wide  the 
door,  and  proclaimed  Judge  Pyncheon's  death,  —  it 
would  have  been,  however  awful  in  itself,  an  event 
fruitful  of  good  consequences  to  them.  As  I  view  it, 
it  would  have  gone  far  towards  obliterating  the  black 
stain  on  Clifford's  character." 

"And  how,"  asked  Phrebe,  "could  any  good  come 
from  what  is  so  very  dreadful  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  the  artist,  "  if  the  matter  can  be 
fairly  considered  and  candidly  interpreted,  it  must  be 
evident  that  Judge  Pyncheon  could  not  have  come  un- 
fairly to  his  end.  This  mode  of  death  has  been  an 
idiosyncrasy  with  his  family,  for  generations  past; 
not  often  occurring,  indeed,  but,  when  it  does  occur, 
usually  attacking  individuals  about  the  Judge's  time 
of  life,  and  generally  in  the  tension  of  some  mental 
crisis,  or,  perhaps,  in  an  access  of  wrath.  Old  Maule's 
prophecy  was  probably  founded  on  a  knowledge  of  this 
physical  predisposition  in  the  Pyncheon  race.  Now, 
there  is  a  minute  and  almost  exact  similarity  in  the 


860     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

appearances  connected  with  the  death  that  occurred 
yesterday  and  those  recorded  of  the  death  of  Clifford's 
uncle  thirty  years  ago.  It  is  true,  there  was  a  certain 
arrangement  of  circumstances,  unnecessary  to  be  re- 
counted, which  made  it  possible  —  nay,  as  men  look 
at  these  things,  probable,  or  even  certain  —  that  old 
Jaffrey  Pyncheon  came  to  a  violent  death,  and  by 
Clifford's  hands." 

"Whence  came  those  circumstances?"  exclaimed 
Phoebe ;  "  he  being  innocent,  as  we  know  him  to  be  ! " 

"  They  were  arranged,"  said  Holgrave,  —  "  at  least 
such  has  long  been  my  conviction,  —  they  were  ar- 
ranged after  the  uncle's  death,  and  before  it  was 
made  public,  by  the  man  who  sits  in  yonder  parlor. 
His  own  death,  so  like  that  former  one,  yet  attended 
by  none  of  those  suspicious  circumstances,  seems  the 
stroke  of  God  upon  him,  at  once  a  punishment  for  his 
wickedness,  and  making  plain  the  innocence  of  Clif- 
ford. But  this  flight,  —  it  distorts  everything !  He 
may  be  in  concealment,  near  at  hand.  Could  we  but 
bring  him  back  before  the  discovery  of  the  Judge's 
death  the  evil  might  be  rectified." 

"  We  must  not  hide  this  thing  a  moment  longer !  " 
said  Phoebe.  "  It  is  dreadful  to  keep  it  so  closely  in 
our  hearts.  Clifford  is  innocent.  God  will  make  it 
manifest !  Let  us  throw  open  the  doors,  and  call  all 
the  neighborhood  to  see  the  truth !  " 

"  You  are  right,  Phoebe,"  rejoined  Holgrave. 
w  Doubtless  you  are  right." 

Yet  the  artist  did  not  feel  the  horror,  which  was 
proper  to  Phoebe's  sweet  and  order-loving  character,  at 
thus  finding  herself  at  issue  with  society,  and  brought 
in  contact  with  an  event  that  transcended  ordinary 
rules.  Neither  was  he  in  haste,  like  her,  to  betake 


THE  FLOWER  OF  EDEN.  361 

himself  within  the  precincts  of  common  life.  On  the 
contrary,  he  gathered  a  wild  enjoyment,  —  as  it  were, 
a  flower  of  strange  beauty,  growing  in  a  desolate  spot, 
and  blossoming  in  the  wind,  —  such  a  flower  of  mo- 
mentary happiness  he  gathered  from  his  present  po- 
sition. It  separated  Phoebe  and  himself  from  the 
world,  and  bound  them  to  each  other,  by  their  exclu* 
sive  knowledge  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  mysterious  death, 
and  the  counsel  which  they  were  forced  to  hold  respect- 
ing it.  The  secret,  so  long  as  it  should  continue  such, 
kept  them  within  the  circle  of  a  spell,  a  solitude  in 
the  midst  of  men,  a  remoteness  as  entire  as  that  of  an 
island  in  mid-ocean ;  once  divulged,  the  ocean  would 
flow  betwixt  them,  standing  on  its  widely  sundered 
shores.  Meanwhile,  all  the  circumstances  of  their  sit- 
uation seemed  to  draw  them  together ;  they  were  like 
two  children  who  go  hand  in  hand,  pressing  closely 
to  one  another's  side,  through  a  shadow-haunted  pas- 
sage. The  image  of  awful  Death,  which  filled  the 
house,  held  them  united  by  his  stiffened  grasp. 

These  influences  hastened  the  development  of  emo- 
tions that  might  not  otherwise  have  flowered  so.  Pos- 
sibly, indeed,  it  had  been  Holgrave's  purpose  to  let 
them  die  in  their  undeveloped  germs. 

"  Why  do  we  delay  so  ?  "  asked  Phosbe.  "  This  se- 
cret takes  away  my  breath !  Let  us  throw  open  the 
doors ! " 

"  In  all  our  lives  there  can  never  come  another  mo- 
ment like  this !  "  said  Holgrave.  "  Phoabe,  is  it  all 
terror  ?  —  nothing  but  terror  ?  Are  you  conscious  of 
no  joy,  as  I  am,  that  has  made  this  the  only  point  of 
life  worth  living  for  ?  " 

"  It  seems  a  sin,"  replied  Phoebe,  trembling,  "  to 
think  of  joy  at  such  a  time !  " 


862     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

"  Could  you  but  know,  Phoebe,  how  it  was  with  me 
the  hour  before  you  came  ! "  exclaimed  the  artist.  "  A 
dark,  cold,  miserable  hour !  The  presence  of  yonder 
dead  man  threw  a  great  black  shadow  over  everything ; 
he  made  the  universe,  so  far  as  my  perception  could 
reach,  a  scene  of  guilt  and  of  retribution  more  dread- 
ful than  the  guilt.  The  sense  of  it  took  away  my 
youth.  I  never  hoped  to  feel  young  again!  The 
world  looked  strange,  wild,  evil,  hostile  ;  my  past  life, 
so  lonesome  and  dreary ;  my  future,  a  shapeless  gloom, 
which  I  must  mould  into  gloomy  shapes  !  But,  Phoebe, 
you  crossed  the  threshold ;  and  hope,  warmth,  and  joy 
came  in  with  you !  The  black  moment  became  at  once 
a  blissful  one.  It  must  not  pass  without  the  spoken 
word.  I  love  you  !  " 

"  How  can  you  love  a  simple  girl  like  me  ?  "  asked 
Phoebe,  compelled  by  his  earnestness  to  speak.  "  You 
have  many,  many  thoughts,  with  which  I  should  try  in 
vain  to  sympathize.  And  I,  —  I,  too,  —  I  have  ten- 
dencies with  which  you  would  sympathize  as  little. 
That  is  less  matter.  But  I  have  not  scope  enough  to 
make  you  happy." 

"  You  are  my  only  possibility  of  happiness !  "  an- 
swered  Holgrave.  "  I  have  no  faith  in  it,  except  as 
you  bestow  it  on  me !  " 

"  And  then  —  I  am  afraid  !  "  continued  Phoebe, 
shrinking  towards  Holgrave,  even  while  she  told  him 
so  frankly  the  doubts  with  which  he  affected  her. 
"  You  will  lead  me  out  of  my  own  quiet  path.  You 
will  make  me  strive  to  follow  you  where  it  is  pathless. 
I  cannot  do  so.  It  is  not  my  nature.  I  sliall  sink 
down  and  perish  ! " 

"  Ah,  Phoebe  !  "  exclaimed  Holgrave,  with  almost  a 
sigh,  and  a  smile  that  was  burdened  with  thought 


THE  FLOWER   OF  EDEN.  363 

•*  It  will  be  far  otherwise  than  as  you  forebode.  The 
world  owes  all  its  onward  impulses  to  men  ill  at  ease. 
The  happy  man  inevitably  confines  himself  within  an- 
cient limits.  I  have  a  presentiment  that,  hereafter,  it 
will  be  my  lot  to  set  out  trees,  to  make  fences,  —  per- 
haps, even,  in  due  time,  to  build  a  house  for  another 
generation,  —  in  a  word,  to  conform  myself  to  laws, 
and  the  peaceful  practice  of  society.  Your  poise  will 
be  more  powerful  than  any  oscillating  tendency  of 
mine." 

"  I  would  not  have  it  so !  "  said  Pho3be,  earnestly. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  asked  Holgrave.  "  If  we  love 
one  another,  the  moment  has  room  for  nothing  more. 
Let  us  pause  upon  it,  and  be  satisfied.  Do  you  love 
me,  Phoebe  ?  " 

"  You  look  into  my  heart,"  said  she,  letting  her  eyes 
drop.  "  You  know  I  love  you !  " 

And  it  was  in  this  hour,  so  full  of  doubt  and  awe, 
that  the  one  miracle  was  wrought,  without  which  every 
human  existence  is  a  blank.  The  bliss  which  makes 
all  things  true,  beautiful,  and  holy  shone  around  this 
youth  and  maiden.  They  were  conscious  of  nothing 
sad  nor  old.  They  transfigured  the  earth,  and  made 
it  Eden  again,  and  themselves  the  two  first  dwellers  in 
it.  The  dead  man,  so  close  beside  them,  was  forgot- 
ten. At  such  a  crisis,  there  is  no  death ;  for  immor- 
tality is  revealed  anew,  and  embraces  everything  in  its 
hallowed  atmosphere. 

But  how  soon  the  heavy  earth-dream  settled  down 
again ! 

"  Hark ! "  whispered  Phoebe.  "  Somebody  is  at  the 
street-door !  " 

"  Now  let  us  meet  the  world !  "  said  Holgrave.  "  No 
doubt,  the  rumor  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  visit  to  thia 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

house,  and  the  flight  of  Hepzibah  and  Clifford,  is 
about  to  lead  to  the  investigation  of  the  premises.  We 
have  no  way  but  to  meet  it.  Let  us  open  the  door  at 
once." 

But,  to  their  surprise,  before  they  could  reach  the 
street-door,  —  even  before  they  quitted  the  room  in 
which  the  foregoing  interview  had  passed, — they  heard 
footsteps  in  the  farther  passage.  The  door,  therefore, 
which  they  supposed  to  be  securely  locked,  —  which 
Holgrave,  indeed,  had  seen  to  be  so,  and  at  which 
Phosbe  had  vainly  tried  to  enter,  —  must  have  been 
opened  from  without.  The  sound  of  footsteps  was  not 
harsh,  bold,  decided,  and  intrusive,  as  the  gait  of 
strangers  would  naturally  be,  making  authoritative 
entrance  into  a  dwelling  where  they  knew  themselves 
unwelcome.  It  was  feeble,  as  of  persons  either  weak 
or  weary;  there  was  the  mingled  murmur  of  two 
voices,  familiar  to  both  the  listeners. 

"  Can  it  be  ?  "  whispered  Holgrave. 

"  It  is  they !  "  answered  Phrebe.  "  Thank  God  !  — 
thank  God!" 

And  then,  as  if  in  sympathy  with  Phoabe's  whis- 
pered ejaculation,  they  heard  Hepzibah's  voice,  more 
distinctly. 

"  Thank  God,  my  brother,  we  are  at  home !  " 

«  Well !  —  Yes  !  —  thank  God !  "  responded  Clif- 
ford. "  A  dreary  home,  Hepzibah !  But  you  have 
done  well  to  bring  me  hither !  Stay  !  That  parlor* 
door  is  open.  I  cannot  pass  by  it !  Let  me  go  and 
rest  me  in  the  arbor,  where  I  used,  —  oh,  very  long 
ago,  it  seems  to  me,  after  what  has  befallen  us, — 
where  I  used  to  be  so  happy  with  little  Phoebe  !  " 

But  the  house  was  not  altogether  so  dreary  as  Clif 
ford  imagined  it.  They  had  not  made  many  steps,  — 


THE  FLOWER   OF  EDEN. 

In  truth,  they  were  lingering  in  the  entry,  with  the  list- 
lessness  of  an  accomplished  purpose,  uncertain  what 
to  do  next,  —  when  Phoebe  ran  to  meet  them.  On  be- 
holding her,  Hepzibah  burst  into  tears.  With  all  her 
might,  she  had  staggered  onward  beneath  the  burden 
of  grief  and  responsibility,  until  now  that  it  was  safe 
to  fling  it  down.  Indeed,  she  had  not  energy  to  fling 
it  down,  but  had  ceased  to  uphold  it,  and  suffered 
it  to  press  her  to  the  earth.  Clifford  appeared  the 
stronger  of  the  two. 

"  It  is  our  own  little  Phoebe  !  —  Ah  !  and  Holgrave 
•with  her,"  exclaimed  he,  with  a  glance  of  keen  and 
delicate  insight,  and  a  smile,  beautiful,  kind,  but  mel- 
ancholy. "  I  thought  of  you  both,  as  we  came  down 
the  street,  and  beheld  Alice's  Posies  in  full  bloom. 
And  so  the  flower  of  Eden  has  bloomed,  likewise,  in 
this  old,  darksome  house  to-day." 


XXI. 

THE  DEPARTURE. 

THE  sudden  death  of  so  prominent  a  member  of  the 
social  world  as  the  Honorable  Judge  Jaffrey  Pyncheon 
created  a  sensation  (at  least,  in  the  circles  more  im- 
mediately connected  with  the  deceased)  which  had 
hardly  quite  subsided  in  a  fortnight. 

It  may  be  remarked,  however,  that,  of  all  the  events 
which  constitute  a  person's  biography,  there  is  scarcely 
one  —  none,  certainly,  of  anything  like  a  similar  im- 
portance —  to  which  the  world  so  easily  reconciles  it- 
self as  to  his  death.  In  most  other  cases  and  contin- 
gencies, the  individual  is  present  among  us,  mixed  up 
with  the  daily  revolution  of  affairs,  and  affording  a 
definite  point  for  observation.  At  his  decease,  there 
is  only  a  vacancy,  and  a  momentary  eddy,  —  very 
small,  as  compared  with  the  apparent  magnitude  of 
the  ingurgitated  object,  —  and  a  bubble  or  two,  ascend- 
ing out  of  the  black  depth  and  bursting  at  the  surface. 
As  regarded  Judge  Pyncheon,  it  seemed  probable,  at 
first  blush,  that  the  mode  of  his  final  departure  might 
give  him  a  larger  and  longer  posthumous  vogue  than 
ordinarily  attends  the  memory  of  a  distinguished  man. 
But  when  it  came  to  be  understood,  on  the  highest  pro- 
fessional authority,  that  the  event  was  a  natural,  and 
*—  except  for  some  unimportant  particulars,  denoting 
a  slight  idiosyncrasy  —  by  no  means  an  unusual  form 
of  death,  the  public,  with  its  customary  alacrity,  pro- 


THE  DEPARTURE.  367 

ceeded  to  forget  that  he  had  ever  lived.  In  short,  the 
honorable  Judge  was  beginning  to  be  a  stale  subject 
before  half  the  county  newspapers  had  found  time  to 
put  their  columns  in  mourning,  and  publish  his  exceed- 
ingly eulogistic  obituary. 

Nevertheless,  creeping  darkly  through  the  places 
which  this  excellent  person  had  haunted  in  his  life- 
time, there  was  a  hidden  stream  of  private  talk,  such 
as  it  would  have  shocked  all  decency  to  speak  loudly 
at  the  street-corners.    It  is  very  singular,  how  the  fact 
of  a  man's  death  often  seems  to  give  people  a  truer 
idea  of  his  character,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  than 
they  have  ever  possessed  while  he  was  living  and  act- 
ing among  them.     Death  is  so  genuine  a  fact  that  it 
excludes  falsehood,  or  betrays  its  emptiness ;  it  is  a 
touchstone  that  proves  the   gold,  and  dishonors  the 
baser  metal     Could  the  departed,  whoever  he  may  be, 
return  in  a  week  after  his  decease,  he  would  almost  in- 
variably find  himself  at  a  higher  or  lower  point  than 
he  had  formerly  occupied,  on  the  scale  of  public  ap- 
preciation.   But  the  talk,  or  scandal,  to  which  we  now 
allude,  had  reference  to  matters  of  no  less  old  a  date 
than  the  supposed  murder,  thirty  or  forty  years  ago, 
of  the  late  Judge  Pyncheon's  uncle.     The  medical 
opinion,  with  regard  to  his  own  recent  and  regretted 
decease,  had  almost  entirely  obviated  the  idea  that  a 
murder  was  committed  in  the  former  case.     Yet,  as 
the  record  showed,  there  were  circumstances  irref raga- 
bly  indicating  that  some  person  had  gained  access  to 
old  Jaffrey  Pyncheon's  private  apartments,  at  or  near 
the  moment  of  his  death.    His  desk  and  private  draw- 
ers, in  a  room  contiguous  to  his  bedchamber,  had  been 
ransacked ;  money  and  valuable  articles  were  missing ; 
there  was  a  bloody  hand-print  on  the  old  man's  linen ; 


868      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

and,  by  a  powerfully  welded  chain  of  deductive  evi. 
dence,  the  guilt  of  the  robbery  and  apparent  murder 
had  been  fixed  on  Clifford,  then  residing  with  his  uncle 
in  the  House  of  the  Seven  Gables. 

Whencesoever  originating,  there  now  arose  a  theory 
that  undertook  so  to  account  for  these  circumstances 
as  to  exclude  the  idea  of  Clifford's  agency.  Many 
persons  affirmed  that  the  history  and  elucidation  of 
the  facts,  long  so  mysterious,  had  been  obtained  by  the 
daguerreotypist  from  one  of  those  mesmerical  seers, 
who,  nowadays,  so  strangely  perplex  the  aspect  of  hu- 
man affairs,  and  put  everybody's  natural  vision  to  the 
blush,  by  the  marvels  which  they  see  with  their  eyes 
shut. 

According  to  this  version  of  the  story,  Judge  Pyn- 
cheon.  exemplary  as  we  have  portrayed  him  in  our 
narrative,  was,  in  his  youth,  an  apparently  irreclaim- 
able scapegrace.  The  brutish,  the  animal  instincts, 
as  is  often  the  case,  had  been  developed  earlier  than 
the  intellectual  qualities,  and  the  force  of  character, 
for  which  he  was  afterwards  remarkable.  He  had 
shown  himself  wild,  dissipated,  addicted  to  low  pleas- 
ures, little  short  of  ruffianly  in  his  propensities,  and 
jrecklessly  expensive,  with  no  other  resources  than 
the  bounty  of  his  uncle.  This  course  of  conduct  had 
alienated  the  old  bachelor's  affection,  once  strongly 
fixed  upon  him.  Now  it  is  averred,  —  but  whether 
on  authority  available  in  a  court  of  justice,  we  do 
not  pretend  to  have  investigated,  —  that  the  young 
man  was  tempted  by  the  devil,  one  night,  to  search 
his  uncle's  private  drawers,  to  which  he  had  unsus- 
pected means  of  access.  While  thus  criminally  oc- 
cupied, he  was  startled  by  the  opening  of  the  cham- 
ber-door. There  stood  old  Jaffrey  Pyncheon,  in  his 


THE  DEPARTURE.  369 

nightclothes  1  The  surprise  of  such  a  discovery,  his 
agitation,  alarm,  and  horror,  brought  on  the  crisis  of 
a  disorder  to  which  the  old  bachelor  had  an  hered- 
itary liability;  he  seemed  to  choke  with  blood,  and 
fell  upon  the  floor,  striking  his  temple  a  heavy  blow 
against  the  corner  of  a  table.  What  was  to  be  done  ? 
The  old  man  was  surely  dead !  Assistance  would 
come  too  late  !  What  a  misfortune,  indeed,  should  it 
come  too  soon,  since  his  reviving  consciousness  would 
bring  the  recollection  of  the  ignominious  offence  which 
he  had  beheld  his  nephew  in  the  very  act  of  com- 
mitting ! 

But  he  never  did  revive.  With  the  cool  hardihood 
that  always  pertained  to  him,  the  young  man  continued 
his  search  of  the  drawers,  and  found  a  will,  of  recent 
date,  in  favor  of  Clifford,  —  which  he  destroyed,  — 
and  an  older  one,  in  his  own  favor,  which  he  suffered 
to  remain.  But  before  retiring,  Jaffrey  bethought 
himself  of  the  evidence,  in  these  ransacked  drawers, 
that  some  one  had  visited  the  chamber  with  sinister 
purposes.  Suspicion,  unless  averted,  might  fix  upon 
the  real  offender.  In  the  very  presence  of  the  dead 
man,  therefore,  he  laid  a  scheme  that  should  free  him- 
self at  the  expense  of  Clifford,  his  rival,  for  whose 
character  he  had  at  once  a  contempt  and  a  repug- 
nance. It  is  not  probable,  be  it  said,  that  he  acted 
with  any  set  purpose  of  involving  Clifford  in  a  charge 
of  murder.  Knowing  that  his  uncle  did  not  die  by 
violence,  it  may  not  have  occurred  to  him,  in  the  hurry 
of  the  crisis,  that  such  an  inference  might  be  drawn. 
But,  when  the  affair  took  this  darker  aspect,  Jaffrey's 
previous  steps  had  already  pledged  him  to  those  which 
remained.  So  craftily  had  he  arranged  the  circum- 
stances, that,  at  Clifford's  trial,  his  cousin  hardly 

VOL.  in.  24 


870      THE  HOUSE   OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

found  it  necessary  to  swear  to  anything  false,  but  only 
to  withhold  the  one  decisive  explanation,  by  refraining 
to  state  what  he  had  himself  done  and  witnessed. 

Thus  Jaffrey  Pyncheon's  inward  criminality,  as  re- 
garded Clifford,  was,  indeed,  black  and  damnable; 
while  its  mere  outward  show  and  positive  commission 
was  the  smallest  that  could  possibly  consist  with  so 
great  a  sin.  This  is  just  the  sort  of  guilt  that  a  man 
of  eminent  respectability  finds  it  easiest  to  dispose  of. 
It  was  suffered  to  fade  out  of  sight  or  be  reckoned 
a  venial  matter,  in  the  Honorable  Judge  Pyncheon's 
long  subsequent  survey  of  his  own  life.  He  shuffled 
it  aside,  among  the  forgotten  and  forgiven  frailties  of 
his  youth,  and  seldom  thought  of  it  again. 

We  leave  the  Judge  to  his  repose.  He  could  not 
be  styled  fortunate  at  the  hour  of  death.  Unknow- 
ingly, he  was  a  childless  man,  while  striving  to  add 
more  wealth  to  his  only  child's  inheritance.  Hardly 
a  week  after  his  decease,  one  of  the  Cunard  steamers 
brought  intelligence  of  the  death,  by  cholera,  of  Judge 
Pyncheon's  son,  just  at  the  point  of  embarkation  for 
his  native  land.  By  this  misfortune  Clifford  became 
rich ;  so  did  Hepzibah ;  so  did  our  little  village  maid- 
en, and,  through  her,  that  sworn  foe  of  wealth  and 
all  manner  of  conservatism,  —  the  wild  reformer,  — 
Holgrave ! 

It  was  now  far  too  late  in  Clifford's  life  for  the  good 
opinion  of  society  to  be  worth  the  trouble  and  anguish 
of  a  formal  vindication.  What  he  needed  was  the 
love  of  a  very  few ;  not  the  admiration,  or  even  the 
respect,  of  the  unknown  many.  The  latter  might  prob- 
ably have  been  won  for  him,  had  those  on  whom  the 
guardianship  of  his  welfare  had  fallen  deemed  it  ad- 
visable to  expose  Clifford  to  a  miserable  resuscitation 


THE  DEPARTURE.  371 

of  past  ideas,  when  the  condition  of  whatever  comfort 
he  might  expect  lay  in  the  calm  of  f orgetfulness.  After 
such  wrong  as  he  had  suffered,  there  is  no  repara- 
tion. The  pitiable  mockery  of  it,  which  the  world 
might  have  been  ready  enough  to  offer,  coming  so 
long  after  the  agony  had  done  its  utmost  work,  would 
have  been  fit  only  to  provoke  bitterer  laughter  than 
poor  Clifford  was  ever  capable  of.  It  is  a  truth  (and 
it  would  be  a  very  sad  one  but  for  the  higher  hopes 
which  it  suggests)  that  no  great  mistake,  whether 
acted  or  endured,  in  our  mortal  sphere,  is  ever  really 
set  right.  Time,  the  continual  vicissitude  of  circum- 
stances, and  the  invariable  inopportunity  of  death, 
render  it  impossible.  If,  after  long  lapse  of  years, 
the  right  seems  to  be  in  our  power,  we  find  no  niche 
to  set  it  in.  The  better  remedy  is  for  the  sufferer  to 
pass  on,  and  leave  what  he  once  thought  his  irrepa- 
rable ruin  far  behind  him. 

The  shock  of  Judge  Pyncheon's  death  had  a  perma- 
nently invigorating  and  ultimately  beneficial  effect  on 
Clifford.  That  strong  and  ponderous  man  had  been 
Clifford's  nightmare.  There  was  no  free  breath  to  be 
drawn,  within  the  sphere  of  so  malevolent  an  influence. 
The  first  effect  of  freedom,  as  we  have  witnessed  in 
Clifford's  aimless  flight,  was  a  tremulous  exhilaration. 
Subsiding  from  it,  he  did  not  sink  into  his  former  in- 
tellectual apathy.  He  never,  it  is  true,  attained  to 
nearly  the  full  measure  of  what  might  have  been  his 
faculties.  But  he  recovered  enough  of  them  partially 
to  light  up  his  character,  to  display  some  outline  of 
the  marvellous  grace  that  was  abortive  in  it,  and  to 
make  him  the  object  of  no  less  deep,  although  less 
melancholy  interest  than  heretofore.  He  was  evidently 
happy.  Could  we  pause  to  give  another  picture  of  his 


872      THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

daily  life,  with  all  the  appliances  now  at  command 
to  gratify  his  instinct  for  the  Beautiful,  the  garden 
scenes,  that  seemed  so  sweet  to  him,  would  look  mean 
and  trivial  in  comparison. 

Very  soon  after  their  change  of  fortune,  Clifford, 
Hepzibah,  and  little  Pho3be,  with  the  approval  of  the 
artist,  concluded  to  remove  from  the  dismal  old  House 
of  the  Seven  Gables,  and  take  up  their  abode,  for  the 
present,  at  the  elegant  country-seat  of  the  late  Judge 
Pyncheon.  Chanticleer  and  his  family  had  already 
been  transported  thither,  where  the  two  hens  had 
forthwith  begun  an  indefatigable  process  of  egg-laying, 
with  an  evident  design,  as  a  matter  of  duty  and  con- 
science, to  continue  their  illustrious  breed  under  better 
auspices  than  for  a  century  past.  On  the  day  set  for 
their  departure,  the  principal  personages  of  our  story, 
including  good  Uncle  Venner,  were  assembled  in  the 
parlor. 

"  The  country-house  is  certainly  a  very  fine  one,  so 
far  as  the  plan  goes,"  observed  Holgrave,  as  the  party 
were  discussing  their  future  arrangements.  "But  I 
wonder  that  the  late  Judge  —  being  so  opulent,  and 
with  a  reasonable  prospect  of  transmitting  his  wealth 
to  descendants  of  his  own  —  should  not  have  felt  the 
propriety  of  embodying  so  excellent  a  piece  of  domes- 
tic architecture  in  stone,  rather  than  in  wood.  Then, 
every  generation  of  the  family  might  have  altered  the 
interior,  to  suit  its  own  taste  and  convenience  ;  while 
the  exterior,  through  the  lapse  of  years,  might  have 
been  adding  venerableness  to  its  original  beauty,  and 
thus  giving  that  impression  of  permanence  which  I 
consider  essential  to  the  happiness  of  any  one  mo- 
ment." 

"  Why,"  cried  Phoebe,  gazing  into  the  artist's  face 


THE  DEPARTURE.  373 

with  infinite  amazement,  "  how  wonderfully  your  ideas 
are  changed !  A  house  of  stone,  indeed !  It  is  but 
two  or  three  weeks  ago  that  you  seemed  to  wish  peo- 
ple to  live  in  something  as  fragile  and  temporary  as  a 
bird's-nest !  " 

"  Ah,  Phrebe,  I  told  you  how  it  would  be ! "  said 
the  artist,  with  a  half-melancholy  laugh.  "  You  find 
me  a  conservative  already !  Little  did  I  think  ever  to 
become  one.  It  is  especially  unpardonable  in  this 
dwelling  of  so  much  hereditary  misfortune,  and  under 
the  eye  of  yonder  portrait  of  a  model  conservative, 
who,  in  that  very  character,  rendered  himself  so  long 
the  evil  destiny  of  his  race." 

"  That  picture !  "  said  Clifford,  seeming  to  shrink 
from  its  stern  glance.  "  Whenever  I  look  at  it,  there 
is  an  old  dreamy  recollection  haunting  me,  but  keep- 
ing just  beyond  the  grasp  of  my  mind.  Wealth  it 
seems  to  say !  —  boundless  wealth  !  —  unimaginable 
wealth  !  I  could  fancy  that,  when  I  was  a  child,  or  a 
youth,  that  portrait  had  spoken,  and-  told  me  a  rich 
secret,  or  had  held  forth  its  hand,  with  the  written 
record  of  hidden  opulence.  But  those  old  matters  are 
so  dim  with  me,  nowadays !  What  could  this  dream 
have  been  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  I  can  recall  it,"  answered  Holgrave. 
"  See  !  There  are  a  hundred  chances  to  one  that  no 
person,  unacquainted  with  the  secret,  would  ever  touch 
this  spring." 

"A  secret  spring!  "  cried  Clifford.  "  Ah,  I  remem- 
ber now !  I  did  discover  it,  one  summer  afternoon, 
when  I  was  idling  and  dreaming  about  the  house,  long 
long  ago.  But  the  mystery  escapes  me." 

The  artist  put  his  finger  on  the  contrivance  to  which 
he  had  referred.  In  former  days,  the  effect  would 


874     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

probably  have  been  to  cause  the  picture  to  start  for- 
ward. But,  in  so  long  a  period  of  concealment,  the  ma- 
chinery had  been  eaten  through  with  rust ;  so  that  at 
Holgrave's  pressure,  the  portrait,  frame  and  all,  tum- 
bled suddenly  from  its  position,  and  lay  face  down- 
ward on  the  floor.  A  recess  in  the  wall  was  thus 
brought  to  light,  in  which  lay  an  object  so  covered 
with  a  century's  dust  that  it  could  not  immediately  be 
recognized  as  a  folded  sheet  of  parchment.  Holgrave 
opened  it,  and  displayed  an  ancient  deed,  signed  with 
the  hieroglyphics  of  several  Indian  sagamores,  and 
conveying  to  Colonel  Pyncheon  and  his  heirs,  forever, 
a  vast  extent  of  territory  at  the  Eastward. 

"  This  is  the  very  parchment  the  attempt  to  recover 
which  cost  the  beautiful  Alice  Pyncheon  her  happiness 
and  life,"  said  the  artist,  alluding  to  his  legend.  "  It 
is  what  the  Pyncheons  sought  in  vain,  while  it  was 
valuable  ;  and  now  that  they  find  the  treasure,  it  has 
long  been  worthless." 

"  Poor  Cousin  Jaffrey !  This  is  what  deceived  him," 
exclaimed  Hepzibah.  "  When  they  were  young  to- 
gether, Clifford  probably  made  a  kind  of  fairy-tale  of 
this  discovery.  He  was  always  dreaming  hither  and 
thither  about  the  house,  and  lighting  up  its  dark  cor- 
ners with  beautiful  stories.  And  poor  Jaffrey,  who 
took  hold  of  everything  as  if  it  were  real,  thought  my 
brother  had  found  out  his  uncle's  wealth.  He  died 
with  this  delusion  in  his  mind !  " 

"  But,"  said  Phoebe,  apart  to  Holgrave,  "  how  came 
you  to  know  the  secret  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  Phrebe,"  said  Holgrave,  "  how  will  it 
please  you  to  assume  the  name  of  Maule  ?  As  for  the 
secret,  it  is  the  only  inheritance  that  has  come  down 
to  me  from  my  ancestors.  You  should  have  known 


THE  DEPARTURE.  875 

sooner  (only  that  I  was  afraid  of  frightening  you 
away)  that,  in  this  long  drama  of  wrong  and  retribu- 
tion, I  represent  the  old  wizard,  and  am  probably  as 
much  a  wizard  as  ever  he  was.  The  son  of  the  exe- 
cuted Matthew  Maule,  while  building  this  house,  took 
the  opportunity  to  construct  that  recess,  and  hide  away 
the  Indian  deed,  on  which  depended  the  immense  land, 
claim  of  the  Pyncheons.  Thus  they  bartered  their 
Eastern  territory  for  Maule's  garden-ground." 

"  And  now,"  said  Uncle  Venner,  "  I  suppose  their 
whole  claim  is  not  worth  one  man's  share  in  my  farm 
yonder !  " 

"  Uncle  Venner,"  cried  Phoabe,  taking  the  patched 
philosopher's  hand,  "  you  must  never  talk  any  more 
about  your  farm  !  You  shall  never  go  there,  as  long 
as  you  live !  There  is  a  cottage  in  our  new  garden,  — 
the  prettiest  little  yellowish-brown  cottage  you  ever 
saw ;  and  the  sweetest-looking  place,  for  it  looks  just 
as  if  it  were  made  of  gingerbread, — and  we  are  going 
to  fit  it  up  and  furnish  it,  on  purpose  for  you.  And 
you  shall  do  nothing  but  what  you  choose,  and  shall 
be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,  and  shall  keep  Cousin 
Cliff ord  in  spirits  with  the  wisdom  and  pleasantness 
which  is  always  dropping  from  your  lips  !  " 

"  Ah !  my  dear  child,"  quoth  good  Uncle  Venner, 
quite  overcome,  "if  you  were  to  speak  to  a  young 
man  as  you  do  to  an  old  one,  his  chance  of  keeping 
his  heart  another  minute  would  not  be  worth  one  of 
the  buttons  on  my  waistcoat !  And  —  soul  alive !  — 
that  great  sigh,  which  you  made  me  heave,  has  burst 
off  the  very  last  of  them  !  But,  never  mind  !  It  was 
the  happiest  sigh  I  ever  did  heave ;  and  it  seems  as  if 
I  must  have  drawn  in  a  gulp  of  heavenly  breath,  to 
make  it  with.  Well,  well  Miss  Phosbe !  They'll 


876       THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

miss  me  in  the  gardens  hereabouts,  and  round  by  the 
back  doors ;  «nd  Pyncheon  Street,  I  'm  afraid,  will 
hardly  look  the  same  without  old  Uncle  Venner,  who 
remembers  it  with  a  mowing  field  on  one  side,  and  the 
garden  of  the  Seven  Gables  on  the  other.  But  either 
I  must  go  to  your  country-seat,  or  you  must  come  tc 
my  farm,  —  that 's  one  of  two  things  certain ;  and  1 
leave  you  to  choose  which !  " 

"  Oh,  come  with  us,  by  all  means,  Uncle  Venner !  " 
said  Clifford,  who  had  a  remarkable  enjoyment  of  the 
old  man's  mellow,  quiet,  and  simple  spirit.  "  I  want 
you  always  to  be  within  five  minutes'  saunter  of  my 
chair.  You  are  the  only  philosopher  I  ever  knew  of 
whose  wisdom  has  not  a  drop  of  bitter  essence  at  the 
bottom ! " 

"  Dear  me !  "  cried  Uncle  Venner,  beginning  partly 
to  realize  what  manner  of  man  he  was.  "And  yet 
folks  used  to  set  me  down  among  the  simple  ones,  in 
my  younger  days !  But  I  suppose  I  am  like  a  Kox- 
bury  russet,  —  a  great  deal  the  better,  the  longer  I 
can  be  kept.  Yes;  and  my  words  of  wisdom,  that 
you  and  Phoebe  tell  me  of,  are  like  the  golden  dande- 
lions, which  never  grow  in  the  hot  months,  but  may 
be  seen  glistening  among  the  withered  grass,  and  un- 
der the  dry  leaves,  sometimes  as  late  as  December. 
And  you  are  welcome,  friends,  to  my  mess  of  dande- 
lions, if  there  were  twice  as  many !  " 

A  plain,  but  handsome,  dark -green  barouche  had 
now  drawn  up  in  front  of  the  ruinous  portal  of  the 
old  mansion-house.  The  party  came  forth,  and  (with 
the  exception  of  good  Uncle  Venner,  who  was  to  fol- 
2ow  in  a  few  days)  proceeded  to  take  their  places. 
They  were  chatting  and  laughing  very  pleasantly  to* 
gether ;  and — as  proves  to  be  often  the  case,  at  mo 


THE  DEPARTURE.  377 

ments  when  we  ought  to  palpitate  with  sensibility—- 
Clifford  and  Hepzibah  bade  a  final  farewell  to  the 
abode  of  their  forefathers,  with  hardly  more  emotion 
than  if  they  had  made  it  their  arrangement  to  return 
thither  at  tea-time.  Several  children  were  drawn  to 
the  spot  by  so  unusual  a  spectacle  as  the  barouche  and 
pair  of  gray  horses.  Recognizing  little  Ned  Higgins 
among  them,  Hepzibah  put  her  hand  into  her  pocket, 
and  presented  the  urchin,  her  earliest  and  staunchest 
customer,  with  silver  enough  to  people  the  Domdaniel 
cavern  of  his  interior  with  as  various  a  procession  of 
quadrupeds  as  passed  into  the  ark. 

Two  men  were  passing,  just  as  the  barouche  drove 
off. 

"  Well,  Dixey,"  said  one  of  them,  "  what  do  you 
think  of  this?  My  wife  kept  a  cent-shop  three  months, 
and  lost  five  dollars  on  her  outlay.  Old  Maid  Pyn- 
cheon  has  been  in  trade  just  about  as  long,  and  rides 
off  in  her  carriage  with  a  couple  of  hundred  thousand, 

—  reckoning  her  share,  and  Clifford's,  and  Phoebe's, 

—  and  some  say  twice  as  much!     If  you  choose  to 
call  it  luck,  it  is  all  very  well ;  but  if  we  are  to  take  it 
as  the  will  of  Providence,  why,  I  can't  exactly  fathom 
it!" 

"  Pretty  good  business !  "  quoth  the  sagacious  Dixey, 

—  "  pretty  good  business  !  " 

Maule's  well,  all  this  time,  though  left  in  solitude, 
was  throwing  up  a  succession  of  kaleidoscopic  pictures, 
in  which  a  gifted  eye  might  have  seen  foreshadowed 
the  coming  fortunes  of  Hepzibah  and  Clifford,  and  the 
descendant  of  the  legendary  wizard,  and  the  village 
maiden,  over  whom  he  had  thrown  Love's  web  of  sor- 
cery. The  Pyncheon  Elm,  moreover,  with  what  foli- 
age the  September  gale  had  spared  to  it,  whispered 


378     THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES. 

unintelligible  prophecies.  And  wise  Uncle  Venner, 
passing  slowly  from  the  ruinous  porch,  seemed  to  hear 
a  strain  of  music,  and  fancied  that  sweet  Alice  Pyn- 
cheon  —  after  witnessing  these  deeds,  this  bygone  woe 
and  this  present  happiness,  of  her  kindred  mortals  — 
had  given  one  farewell  touch  of  a  spirit's  joy  upon 
her  harpsichord,  as  she  floated  heavenward  from  the 
HOUSE  OF  THE  SEVEN  GABLES  1 


'••   • 


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